


And so this feeling grows

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, F/F, F/M, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Love Actually AU, M/M, Multi, New Year's Eve, Pregnancy, Songs, Teeth-rottening cliche Christmas fluff, Wedding, mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-02 23:30:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 55,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Courfeyrac, Marius expects pictures and videos of his wedding,” sighs Enjolras tiredly before returning to the article he had been writing. “Not pictures of his guests’ <em>backsides</em>.”<br/>“You say that because you haven’t yet seen Grantaire’s ass,” he winks, and Enjolras focuses on his laptop because he most definitely does not wish to see Grantaire’s bottom, for no reason in the universe. “Hey, cheer up!” cries Courfeyrac, ruffling his mop of blond hair. “Christmas is coming!”<br/>“Exactly,” grimaces Enjolras, staying still and typing, not stirring from his position. “Last time I checked I had 99 problems and let me tell you that: <em>Christmas wasn't one of them!</em>”</p><p>Marius and Cosette are getting married and <em>thank goodness</em> the wedding cake doesn't say <em>Sorry I slept with your mother</em> anymore, Musichetta is pregnant and Bossuet secretly provides her with chocolate while they bury Joly's beans and grains under the mattress, Grantaire hates Christmas, Enjolras hates Christmas, and all of them really need to get their shit together.<br/>Oh, and Feuilly is the gingerbread man.</p><p>This holiday season<br/><em>Love, miserably</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All you need is love

**Author's Note:**

> Alright.  
> First of all. This is a WIP /but/ I've almost finished the story already and I will be updating regularly and it will be all up by New Year's Eve! Actually I spent the whole month writing this for Christmas because I can't help it, I'm the most cliché silly woobie Christmas thing in the world, which is the actual reason for not having updated La Boheme recently and I'm so sorry for that BUT there will be an update on that story as well during this week, I promise!  
> I know that nobody really asked for yet another Love Actually AU but I had promised that to myself since summer. Love Actually is one of my favorite movies of all time and an eternal tradition for Christmas so, here you go. Stupid French boys (and girls) with some mistletoe and shameless fragments from the actual scenario (God actually I am ashamed...)  
> So yeah, the first chapter is my least favorite so far -in fact I'm not pleased with it at all but it wouldn't get better no matter how hard I'd tried- so pretty please give this story a chance and wait for updates, please and thank you <3  
> Opinions and constructive criticism concerning ANYTHING are more than welcome!  
> Thank you in advance and I'm sorry for this huge piece of ugly marshmallow <3 (with Hulk pee in it. Yep. I got some green marshmallows the other day and apparently they had some disgusting sort of sweet jelly inside them and when my boyfriend saw it, he named it Hulk pee.)

“Who in the name of baby Jesus, the three kings and all the sheep is Euphrasie Fauchelevent?”

Alright. This went alright. No _who in the name of fuck._ No _who the hell._ Or _who the fuckin’ hell._ No _who in the name of Merlin,_ or _in the name of the Great Khal of the Dothraki._ Then again, Éponine doesn’t know how the most hardcore religious guests are going to take such a blasphemic mention of their Lord and Savior, together with the holy sheep or something of that sort.

The thing is that _all_ they eyes are pointed on Bahorel because he… well, he is _supposed_ to be _marrying_ Cosette and Marius. He appeared in the ceremony with a black eye. And apologized to the guests for having forgotten his notes in the dressing room. Only after he’d proceeded to the vows did it show that he had no bloody idea of who Euphrasie Fauchelevent actually _was._

The place is not very crowded. Marius does not have a really big family and his relationship with his grandfather had been absolutely horrible ever since he decided to follow his father’s steps and become a devoted communist. There are a few smelly moustached aunts with huge bottoms pushed into pink suits that remind Éponine of Dolores Umbridge, and they look positively shocked at the disturbing question of the ‘preacher’ –Éponine snorts at the thought when her eyes meet with Bahorel’s mischievous bruised one-, Cosette’s foster father seems reserved and struggling to hold back a smile, but other than that everyone else is roaring with laughter, even Enjolras and Combeferre, and Marius’ grandfather even more. Only Marius has become red as a tomato and Éponine can’t hold her own laughter back, causing the video camera she’s holding in her hand to bounce up and down. This scene will definitely not be very clear in the video afterwards.

Not that she’s showing this video to anyone, of course.

However when Cosette manages to maintain her giggles and whispers to Bahorel that _she_ is Euphrasie Fauchelevent, the wedding ceremony goes on and the tight feeling of suffocation that had settled in Éponine’s chest returns together with a few ugly, burning tears in her eyes that taste salty as they stream down her cheeks and disappear through the corners of her ridiculously painted lips. She has to admit that she had looked good when Grantaire first showed her the result of his makeup genius on the mirror, her thin lips a dark, rich burgundy that contrasted eerily with her black hair, today tamed and pulled on a bun on the top of her head, with millions of bobby pins holding the stubborn, stray locks in place, dark eyeliner around her harsh eyes, pointing them out, and a miraculous mascara toning her almost non-existent eyelashes. But now… now Éponine, ready to choke in her own, pitiful tears, feels like a child who smeared her mother’s colors on her face.

She’s looking at everyone through the camera she’s holding. Courfeyrac, the best man, in the most eye catching pink Gatsby suit she’s ever seen, beaming widely and grimacing behind Marius. His forgetting the rings and being saved on the last minute by his mischievous comrade slash protégé aka her ten year old brother, Gavroche, was the least that had threatened to blow this wedding in the air –if said brother had not decided to start pickpocketing Marius’ family to take revenge for his beloved sister, that is.

Jehan might be all teary and gorgeous in his extravagant lilac bridesmaid dress –which he designed himself, much to everyone’s horror, but surprisingly ended up looking dashing in, as well as Éponine and Musichetta- and feather top hat but no one will ever forget how terrifying and menacing he can actually become when florists send aconites that mean misanthropy in the language of flowers and he just a glare of him is enough for them to immediately replace every single one of them with heliotropes which mean devotion. Marius managed to forget to count Cosette and himself in the number of people actually eating after the ceremony, and if it hadn’t been for Combeferre’s diplomatic dealing with the catering company, the newlyweds would have to deal with the fact that they’d starve or walk around and steal people’s food from their plates. Then Enjolras, looking hotter than ever in his black suit and pissy expression, got furious at the working conditions of the catering company’s employees and decided to hold a petition. As for Feuilly and Bahorel, they were both dangerously late, and for Feuilly to be late would be alright even though Cosette would be immensely hurt, but Bahorel was fuckin’ _marrying them._

Apparently Bahorel showed up late and excessively excited, after a brawl, his knuckles bruised and his eye black. After a while, the door opened and a man burst into the room.

Not any regular man, no.

A _gingerbread._ Fuckin’. Man.

An actual gingerbread man like the badass dude from Shrek, with eyes and mouth of frosting, and a huge brown fluffy stick body.

It turned out that was Feuilly having just finished from one of his million jobs. He had dressed as a gingerbread man to entertain kids –which meant to be poked and groped and tiara-ed and puked upon- to a children’s seasonal party and he had just managed to escape a tea table with twelve toddlers and thirty two plushes and run to the wedding without even managing to change. On a side note, which he whispered to Éponine’s ear, they called him ‘Princess Ginge’, which was a thing that Bahorel should under no account learn because he’d never ever let him forget it.

A gorgeous Musichetta in her silver bridesmaid dress which stretched all over her curves and huge bump, though extremely bloodthirsty and very _very_ pregnant at the same time, spent the whole morning looking for her boys whom she apparently found passed out in Bahorel’s bathtub, wearing her heels and frying pans on their heads, forgotten there after the bachelor party the previous night. Éponine suspected that a huge fight followed, escorted by pregnant makeup sex, as the state of Bossuet’s suit, Musichetta’s hair and the lipstick marks all over Joly’s face obviously suggested. 

But now everything’s alright. No really, everything’s fine. It doesn’t matter that the man whom she’s been drooling over for the past couple of years is getting married. To another woman.

To her _childhood foster sister._

No, it really is alright. Her heart isn’t breaking at all as she watches the way they stare at each other with sickening adoration.

Everything is _fine._

Gavroche is flirting with Marius’ baby cousins who are still five years his senior but apparently they’re _falling,_ Marius isn’t considering elopement through the ventilation system or by flushing himself down the toilet anymore even though he’s looking considerably faint –no one should have trusted Courfeyrac to give him The Talk, but apparently the best man managed to comfort him afterwards, they know that his methods included marshmallows, yoga and Monopoly, but they honestly that’s already more than enough information- and Grantaire is there, behind her, his arm wrapped around her waist, and he looks damn gorgeous even though he doesn’t want to admit it, his wild black hair is shiny and somehow flattened on the back of his head and the suit just makes her want to rip it off and have comfort sex right in the middle of the fuckin’ ceremony, but he found her a while ago, curled on the stairs with those horrible heels kicked off their feet, crying her eyes out, and he held her and comforted her like they always do, and then they spent a while trying to cover each other’s voice – _“No you are hotter!” “No you are more fuckin’ beautiful!” “No you!” “No you!” “Look at you!” “No fuckin’ look at you!”-_

And somehow they’ve all managed to be here and Cosette and Marius are getting married, and there is an eerie, palpable silence around as they exchange their vows in soft, trembling voices, their eyes fixed into each other’s as if there’s something only they can see, as if their lives depend on their love, who is she trying to shit, of _course_ their lives depend on their love.

Almost everybody’s crying. Courfeyrac always had a thing for dramatics, Jehan and Musichetta are blowing their noses in handkerchiefs, as for Joly, he is trying to pretend he has a cold but they all know how sentimental that precious bastard can get, and Cosette’s father, despite the fact that he’s huge and imposing, looks like a tennis ball has stuck on his throat, and his eyes are glowing with the saddest tears Éponine has ever seen, and everyone is happy and sentimental and they’ve all forgotten the third sleeve with which Cosette’s wedding dress first arrived.

How can they not when Cosette is actually looking like a Princess right out of a fairytale, radiating light to the entire room –well, alongside Enjolras’ ridiculously golden hair. She looks stunning, tender, kind, caring, a faint smile drawn on her pink lips, her cheeks rosy and smooth beneath the veil that’s covering her angelic face, her eyes bright and gentle, her blond hair falling on her back in smooth, perfect waves. Her dressing gown is covered in lace, the sleeves long and hugging her creamy arms, the bodice beautifully embracing her well-proportioned figure, and hundreds of layers of tulle falling from her slim waist. Éponine thinks that Cosette is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen, and she hates the fact that she can’t even _hate_ the girl who’s marrying the love of her life.

She tried hard to hate Cosette when she first heard her name after all those years of not having met with each other, when she remembered the thin, plain child she’d never give her dollies to, when she realized that Marius who’d never managed to leave her mind ever since she met him, started stalking _her,_ Cosette Fauchelevent. She soon found that it was impossible to hate her. Cosette was an angel and Éponine hated herself more and more every day that passed, for thinking of Pontmercy all day long and having wet knickers over him, for smoking entire packets of cigarettes and getting pissed drunk with Grantaire just to forget about him, but in vain. Éponine had loved Marius for too long and in a too self-destructing manner to let him go off her head that easily.

When she learnt that they were getting married she locked herself in her room and drank until Grantaire came to find her puking her guts out, hugging the toilet as if her life depended on it. She then curled on his lap and cried until she fell asleep. She was pathetic and she knew that, but she was expecting this day with horror.

The only problem was that right now her feelings are frustratingly mixed. She keeps watching Marius’ devoted face behind the lens of her camera, masochistically repeating to herself again and again that she’ll never have him. He’s beautiful, no matter Grantaire may tease him. He’s smart and caring and dorky and oblivious as fuck but he’s beautiful, his warm eyes shining with untamed excitement and adorable nervousness and eternal devotion. But Éponine realizes he’s not just beautiful. _They’re_ beautiful, and they’re together. As much as it hurts, Éponine knows that Marius and Cosette are meant to be together and there’s nothing she can do about it.

“I pronounce you husband and wife yadayada, now where’s the food?”

And just then, before they know it, Marius grabs a startled Cosette in his arms, ever the subtle one, and presses his lips on her own, bending his lank body over her own dangerously, and everyone around is cheering, shouting and whistling, and Éponine feels something slowly breaking inside her.

“Well yeah, I guess you may _now_ kiss the bride,” snorts Bahorel with a mischievous grin on his face before Courfeyrac throws his arms around the couple, breaking their embrace and kissing them both straight on the lips, shrieking incoherent nothings after pulling them to a bone-breaking group hug.

Courfeyrac is laughing and Cosette is laughing and even Marius is laughing and they’re all insanely happy.

Éponine’s view through the lens is blurred by tears, stupid tears that she hates because she hates feeling weak but fuck it, she’s not weak, she’s _happy_ for them and she loves them as much as she loves everyone else in this room, which is _a fuckin’ lot_.

She feels a warm hand with callused fingers slowly wrapping around her own.

“It’s over, princess,” she hears a hoarse, quiet voice between the shouts and the applauses.

Grantaire.

“Don’t call me that, asshole,” she growls silently but can hardly hold back a grin.

She can literally hear him smiling near him and she squeezes his hand.

It’s alright. And if it isn’t, it’s going to be.

She turns off the camera.

*

No one has expected Bossuet to take a harmonica out of the pocket of his suit and suddenly the wedding march from the church organ becomes La Marseillaise and dissolves into the intro of _All you need is love._ Cosette lets a small shriek of excitement and both she and Marius gape when they see the silent Combeferre sitting on the piano in the corner, in his sharp suit and playing the most marvelous music they’ve ever heard. Jehan has already produced a flute from somewhere and is joining in –there is no doubt this sneaky bastard has organized it all-, as for Bahorel, he finds a pair of wooden drum baguettes in his suit and keeps the rhythm on the wooden lectern in front of him and Grantaire has grabbed his guitar and is strumming merrily. Everyone’s jaws drop when Feuilly in his gingerbread costume stands up in the middle of the crowd and starts singing non-ironically in the most breathtaking of voices.

_There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done_  
 _There’s nothing you can do that can’t be sung_  
 _There’s nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game_  
 _It’s easy!_

And they all start cheering excitedly when Musichetta stands up, looking drop dead gorgeous, throwing her brown curls over her shoulder, continuing in the most extraordinary jazz voice.

_There’s nothing you can make that can’t be made_  
 _No one you can save that can’t be saved_  
 _Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time_  
 _It’s easy!_

And soon the cheers turn to hysteric screams as if The Beatles themselves have appeared, when Courfeyrac jumps on a stand, swaying his hips in a way that should be illegal in his pink suit, and throwing his dark curls off his face sassily, starting to sing in the most horrible, off tune voice while winking and blowing kisses all around.

_All you need is love!_  
 _All you need is love!_  
 _All you need is love, love!_  
 _Love is all you need!_

When Bahorel joins in, shaking his bulky, imposing figure to the rhythm, stripping off his blazer and throwing it to the direction of the mustached aunts and almost giving them an apoplexy, it’s an obvious sign that the party has officially started.

*

Musichetta catches the bride’s bouquet quite deftly which is considerably admirable, what with a bump that almost reaches her chin getting in the way, and drives Joly to hysterics because she jumped and oh God, what if she harms their babies? Then Cosette tries to feed Marius with a spoonful of cake –everyone who had seen the _Congratulations on your hysterectomy_ and the _Sorry I slept with your mother’s_ cakes is incredibly relieved for the proper, three stored wedding cake to have finally arrived. Apparently Marius finds it very difficult to eat from someone else’s hand and he ends up accidentally biting Cosette’s finger. After most of the guests are served Bossuet stumbles into the cake and Musichetta and Joly end up eating it and serving the remaining ones from his bald head and Despicable Me tie.

Everything goes excellent after that, with no more incidents, and they all seem incredibly relieved to be able to eat, most of the boys are positively starving and even Enjolras focuses on his food, much to Combeferre’s delight, as it is widely known that their chief hardly ever remembers to sleep or eat properly when he’s too caught up with his work.

Everything goes well, that is, until they hear the tingling noise of a fork against a champagne glass. And they all remember that Courfeyrac is the best man.

And that fuck, apparently they aren’t getting to skip the best man’s toast.

Everyone goes silent and holds their breaths. All eyes get fixed on Courfeyrac, who clears his throat with a mocking serious expression and pretends to be wiping a single tear from the corner of his eyes.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to my best man’s day! I understand how hard it may be to feel overshadowed by my looks but you have all made an admirable effort to look nice today and I can’t feel any less than honoured, even though it actually is Pontsquirrel’s honour over here to have me as a best man!” The first awkwardness and frozen silence dissolves into hearty laughter from the guests and Courfeyrac winks to the direction of Marius’ young cousins who are on the verge of hyperventilation. “Truth is that I’m a little nervous today, because Marius told me that if I do well I get to be the best man to his next wedding too!” the parlour roars with laughter, apart from Marius whose ears flush maroon, and Monsieur Fauchelevent who throws a murderous look to his direction. As for Cosette, she’s bent in two, chuckling hysterically. “Today most certainly is a day of woe for the male population, as a woman as beautiful as Cosette is not single anymore, and well, Pontmarmot is not single as well but that’s not a big loss, I guess!” He raises his voice, trying to overtop the laughter. “I’m kidding, of course!” he winks to Marius’ direction who shoots him a death glare. “Not only is Marius a catch, but _I_ was positively devastated when our meeting didn’t turn out quite as it seemed it would! You see, twelve months ago, Marius knocked my door looking like a lost puppy, but a Golden Retriever puppy, always noble even in his duck pyjamas, and said ‘I’ve come to sleep with you!’” Now Marius looks ready to faint, small and slumpy behind the table, and everybody is literally bouncing up and down their seats. “It turned out that he didn’t really want to _sleep_ with me but don’t worry, Pupmercy, my heart is not broken just yet! I am devoted to the sole cause of ending up in your bed in the middle of you and gorgeous Cosette and I shall not be in peace until I succeed!” Courfeyrac clears his throat and continues. “Marius is a wonderful chap. Who will ever forget the streams of tears he’s poured during all the Disney marathons the two of us have had? Who will ever forget the pizzas he can make and his epical overdressed appearances every now and then? Who can deny his incomparable smartness, as he’s taught himself approximately eleven languages and who can ever forget the endless hours he’s spent voluntarily teaching children, patiently and selflessly, with all the love one can possess?” By now the room has gone silent and gentle smiles have appeared in everybody’s faces. Marius still looks flushed, but no one can deny the air of pride and pleasant surprise on his face. “And who will ever forget,” continues Courfeyrac, a little more mischievously now, “how he was struck to the bone in a moment of breathless delight, when he first spotted our darling Cosette over here, strolling with her father at the Luxembourg gardens, his adorkable croaking and incoherent rambling that went on until he actually talked to her, which was…” Courfeyrac frowns slightly, “six months later. Cosette though is the most beautiful, stunning person he could ever have picked and she… tolerated his cute… somethingness quite admirably.” Cosette ruffles Marius’ hair lovingly. “You both are wonderful, and I will always be on your side. Lust at first sight exists,” he waves his arms dramatically, as if he’s going to say the grandest words of wisdom, “but so does love at first sight.”

Marius is staring at the opposite wall, Courfeyrac has obviously broken him but everyone applauds and Courfeyrac takes several bows.

The music begins and the newlyweds proceed to the dance floor. Cosette dances gracefully, looking like her feet aren’t even touching the floor, the puffy wedding dress swirling around her. Marius is a very good dancer as well, apart from the points where Cosette grimaces and he may or may not have stepped on her feet. After that Marius does a silly dance and Bahorel with Courfeyrac immediately find it a good idea to join and when Joly and Bossuet come somehow it turns to the Harlem Shake.

Cosette is dancing a slow, beautiful song in her father’s arms and Éponine _tries_ to snort when she sees her stepping on his feet and smiling serenely, but a thick lump on her throat when she thinks of her _own_ father and the tenderness she’s never experienced stop her.

“Hey,” she hears a voice behind her shoulder. It is a voice she knows particularly well, a voice which has no other purpose than to make her shudder and fill her stomach with butterflies and all the embarrassing sort of things that didn’t even happen to her when she was a teen.

She can’t believe it. It’s absolutely impossible. She spent two years screaming on the inside for Marius to touch the wool of her jumper accidentally or to breathe on her nape or something equally disturbing that apparently made her heart beat rather irregularly because that’s was what she is and always has been, pathetic and… pathetic.

“Thank you,” he mutters, shifting his weight from one foot to another and Éponine stares at him incredulously. “I’d never met Cosette if it weren’t for you. I owe you my happiness.”

Of course. Of fuckin’ course. What other reason would there be for Marius to be thankful? She introduced him to _Cosette_!

“Don’t mention it, Marius,” she hears herself croaking, “I’m…um, I’m glad you’re happy.”

And then there’s a hug. It’s the most awkward, head-bumping, shoulder-patting hug they’ve ever exchanged and she hates every second of it, every beat of her heart that pounds in her head and every breath that hitches on her throat. And Marius disappears into the crowd to find Cosette.

*

“Let’s go be psychos together,” Grantaire whispers in Éponine’s ear, sporting a smile he wishes he’d believe in. It’s worth it, because eventually a bitter grin appears on her face and he can’t help but notice how different she looks without her lipring and with all that makeup on. She eventually gives takes his hand and kicks off her heels, and they make their way to the dance floor.

It’s only right when they’re together, just the two of them in the middle of the world. He met her when she was fourteen and he was finishing school. He punched him in the face and they shared a cigarette. Nothing has changed ever since.

Well not really. They may still get wasted and pity themselves, they may still kiss each other in moments of despair, all tongues and clashing teeth, just to feel that someone’s there. They may still have to help each other when they puke their lives out in the toilet. They may still dance like sex, having the whole dance floor stare at them, fingers curling around fabric, waists breaking and hips swaying in a way that should probably be illegal. These things may not have changed but _something_ has changed. They’re parts of a group now, and Grantaire can’t even tell how or why or when. He remembers Jehan dragging him to one of the meetings to hear some dude talking for the same old shit that would never change in modern day societies, he remembers sitting silently on the table in the corner hearing his heart hammering violently in his head, trying to believe for once in his life, trying to believe that the explosion of golden light and red flames that coiled around him was not a figment of his drunken mind.

He was hooked. Not only did he not believe that this was more real than a deceiving dream, but he grew even more distant from believing in _anything_ every day. He’d never considered himself optimistic or faithful. He’d been disappointed very early in his life, but now even the wonderful friends he had acquired couldn’t prevent him from growing darker, more bitter and sarcastic with every passing day.

He can see him through the dancing crowd. He’s standing near the buffet, a glass his lips haven’t even touched in his hand, looking painfully uneasy and talking to Combeferre, probably declaring how much he wishes this party will end soon enough. They are a married fuckin’ couple, those two. Grantaire admires and respects Combeferre very much, but there are times when he can’t help feeling immensely jealous for the precious, unique relationship those two share. He can imagine Combeferre shouting ‘Honey, I’m home’, when he returns from his shifts at the hospital, and then both of them sitting in front of the fireplace, newspapers instead of knitting needles on their lap, fervently discussing politics and philosophy while sipping some steamy tea like the good husbands they are.

Enjolras is looking positively stunning today, even godlier than he usually does. _He_ didn’t need to have his hair plastered on the back of his head, because it might be curly as fuck, but they are excellent, shiny ringlets that surround his pale face and fall gracefully just above his shoulders, unlike his own, wild tendrils. His lips are red like cherries and his posture proud and imposing as always. He looks ridiculously gorgeous in that dark suit and red tie that’s tied around his silver collarbone with a perfect knot –that Combeferre has made, no doubt. Well, everyone is wearing a suit, even Feuilly who is discussing his charity volunteering with Cosette’s father, not wearing his gingerbread man costume anymore –though Bahorel will never let him forget about that- but Grantaire feels crap in the misfitting blazer and dancing doesn’t really help with the stream of sweat on his spine, that makes the rigid shirt stick on his skin, when Enjolras can effortlessly look like he owns the universe, the trousers hugging his hips and falling over his long legs in the way perfect trousers that respect themselves should, and the blazer stretching over his torso just _right._

Grantaire is too lost in the sight of him that he doesn’t even see it coming when their eyes meet from afar, in an inexplicable expression the man seems to only be saving for him. He forgets how to breathe and he never wants this moment to end but other dancing couples get between them and block his sight.

Éponine probably feels him stiffening in her arms, because she leans closer and shouts in his ear for her voice to be heard through the music. “I have an idea!”

“What idea?” he asks hoarsely.

He feels her leaning closer and he can smell the cigarettes in her breath even though he’s a smoker himself. “Let’s get totally shitfaced.”

Right now, this seems like the best idea in the whole fuckin’ universe.

*

It wasn’t that Courfeyrac didn’t notice him.

Courfeyrac _always_ noticed him, even when Jehan thought he went unnoticed. He watched him every time he sat on the ledge of a window, his floral cladded knees hanging in the air, his feet bare from the very moment that the city smelt of spring, and in fluffy, mismatching, patterned socks when the weather got colder. He watched the rose tattoo on the back of his hand, with the thorns and leaves wrapping around his wrist as the pen moved furiously over everything he could find: a small notebook, a super market list, a napkin or a receipt from their coffees. He watched him frown in concentration and biting the tip of his pen, his pale, freckled face often blue and stained by ink. He watched the stray, ginger hair that shimmered when the sun met them through the window, escaping his braid, and the tortoise shell reading glasses slipping dangerously off his pointed nose when he took a break to water the flowers in the small, ceramic pots. Courfeyrac watched Jehan being beautiful and completely unaware of the fact, kind and caring and helpful whenever anyone needed him, fierce, even terrifying when fighting for freedom.

Jehan is unearthly today. When –a considerably tipsy- Courfeyrac watches him in the long, satin lavender dress that clings over his slim figure because no one would care less for gender norms and shocked aunties than gentle, melancholic Jehan, and he’s certain that the man possesses magical powers of his own.

“Nice dress,” he hears himself saying and he doesn’t regret a word because he’s granted with the most precious blushing upon the man’s cheeks.

“Thank you,” a shadow of a bitter smile appears on his face. “’Parnasse didn’t really appreciate the idea of it, though. Anyway, he had the flu so he couldn’t come over.”

“’Parnasse doesn’t know what he’s saying!” replies Courfeyrac fiercely, secretly thankful that Jehan’s dick of a boyfriend didn’t escort him to the wedding. “You look absolutely dashing!”

Jehan’s smile grows wider. “I’m certain I can say the same for you, Jay!”

Courfeyrac snorts. “I hardly consider myself to bear any similarities to Gatsby, old sport! He hosted the biggest fuckin’ parties in America and he hardly ever shagged any of the guests, and look where he ended! I thoroughly respect the chap but we have completely different priorities, to say the least.”

“That you have.” Jehan raises an eyebrow before taking a ship of his champagne. “I have a feeling you oversimplify the situation though, don’t you?”

Oh, why did he try to discuss books in first place? Of course he’d fuck it up. Courfeyrac is not Enjolras or Joly. He _never_ fucks it up with people.

Jehan, of course, is not exactly considered to be a normal person, is he?

“So,” a hint of mischief is shining in the man’s smile, for once looking like a conversation about American literature of the 20th century is not exactly what he wants to have at this very moment. “I take it I haven’t had the chance to congratulate you properly for your success as a best man, have I?”

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes before winking at him. “Yeah well, you don’t really _need_ to, me and you both already know that no one could have done a better job!”

“Oh _trust me,_ darling,” chuckles Jehan softly, tilting his head a little on the side, “we both already know that.” And with that, he leans forward and places two kisses on each of Courfeyrac’s cheeks, in a way only Jehan can. “Congratulations, best best man in history!”

It should be far easier for Courfeyrac to hit on Marius’ cousins or start a challenge of grabbing all of his friends’ butts –including both of the newlyweds’- after that, but apparently it isn’t.

Because Jehan smelt of cigarettes and gardenias, and his cheek was so soft against Courfeyrac’s.

And because Jehan has a boyfriend.

*

Enjolras likes Marius. He really does. They might have had their disagreements but Combeferre has been even sterner than himself when it came to those, and Pontmercy is a particularly kind and passionate soul, who only happens to invest said passion in the wrong causes. Enjolras will never forget Marius’ overall contribution to _their_ cause, though, and that’s enough of a reason for him to appreciate the man.

Enjolras likes Cosette too. Don’t get him wrong, he actually did _hate_ her once and quite unfairly, without even knowing here, because her faceless name was the only thing he ever heard coming out from Pontmercy’s drooling mouth, and that approximately 24601 times a day. But then he met her, and it was impossible to dislike a person as kind and caring as Cosette, especially when said person happened to be involved in feministic movements and in helping the homeless with everything she and her father were able of doing.

Enjolras wants to be at their wedding. He really does. He’d never, not in a million years decline their invitation. It’s just that he didn’t really remember a wedding and its aftermath would last for more than two hours, and here he is, four hours after the moment he left his apartment, smothered in a tight, smart costume with a tie that hardly allows him to breathe, feeling pretty much like his father. And all he can think of is the work he has left behind, and the things he could be finishing right now, in the comfort of his sweatpants or in anything, really, on the dim light of his desk instead of those dizzying colorful disco lights.

Combeferre is standing near him, like the two of them always do, and they’re speechlessly staring at the crowd with a glass in hand, with the only difference that Combeferre has actually tasted the drink in it. Enjolras is feeling particularly uneasy between all the people who are partying, but Combeferre seems to rather be enjoying himself. Enjolras has to admit, after all, that the suit with the dark blue tie looks much more natural on his childhood friend than it does on him.

His bespectacled friend turns to look at him with reserved cheerful expression on his face. “You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself,” he said with a hint of teasing on his voice.

“That’s probably because I am not,” murmured Enjolras, tilting his head a little towards Combeferre in order to be heard, but not taking his eyes away from the crowd. “You know how I feel about weddings.”

“Money that could feed a village of people for a week thrown in a pretentious feast in which white prevails as a color, hypocritically declaring the presence of some absent virginity and the disgusting fact that heterosexual people are ‘legalizing’ their love under a church or a government that still refuses to acknowledge homosexual love as _love._ Yes, I think I do know how you feel, and I don’t disagree, but Cosette and Marius are two people in love, Enjolras, and wanting to make their lives practically easier and somehow confirm their relationship under the given circumstances isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

Enjolras snorts but thankfully the music is loud enough for him to not be heard through it. “I just wish I could return home right now, I still haven’t finished the speech about the awareness concerning the S.D.F. in that school that has invited us, and I really wish for us to make a good impression.”

Combeferre smiles softly. “You know we will, we’ve never made anything less than a good impression to people who actually intended to _listen_ to what we have to say before condemning us and our ‘reasonable beliefs’ and that school is known to be particularly wide-minded. Why don’t you try to relax for an hour or two, Enjolras, and enjoy yourself?”

“What do you suggest I should do then?” sighs the blonde.

“Why, dance of course!” Combeferre pats his shoulder and his smiles widens.

“You know I don’t dance,” huffs Enjolras, trying to shove out of his mind his frustrating lack of talent when it comes to dance, though Combeferre doesn’t need to know how bad he really is, “and if my eyes are not currently deceiving me, neither do you!”

“I’m just keeping you some company, my friend,” Combeferre raises his shoulders and Enjolras immediately feels ashamed for keeping his friend in the corner of the room, as if he’s a child in need of babysitting. “I really do believe that dancing would do you good! Look, even Grantaire is enjoying himself! It’s a very nice change to see him merry as that, isn’t it?”

Enjolras snorts as his eyes follow Grantaire on the dance floor. Is there a moment when Grantaire is _not_ merry? He remembers of the constant nuisance that he is, pissed drunk all of the time, singing opera during meetings, starting drinking games with Bossuet and Bahorel for every time that Enjolras says the word ‘people’, being sarcastic all the time and mocking their cause.

Then of course more images come, image of Grantaire and his problems with alcoholism throughout the numerous nights they all tried to prevent him from choking in his own vomit, his miserable rambling about Life and Death, and his spiteful comments towards everything that Enjolras believes in, coming from the man who fails to believe in anything.

Maybe Grantaire is not that merry after all.

His eyes find him dancing with Éponine –no surprises here- and something strange leaps inside him. He translates it to disgust at the way they touch each other and cling on each other’s body, but it isn’t exactly that. Grantaire looks very different in a suit and a green tie than he does in his scruffy old boots and faded flannel shirts that are two sizes too big. His usually untamed curly hair is shiny and pushed back from his face, and even from a distance and with colorful lights flashing all around the room, Enjolras can see his ridiculously blue eyes, cold and calm and inexplicable.

And then their eyes meet and Enjolras feels strange, very strange indeed, like he’s started feeling every time that he looks into those blue eyes lately and he feels he’s going crazy, he _knows_ he is, because then Grantaire, loud, obnoxious, annoying Grantaire, leans closer and Éponine whispers something in his ear and their cheeks touch and Enjolras can’t help but wonder how it’d be to dance with Grantaire and maybe have their cheeks pressed together.

“Give Grantaire a chance,” says Combeferre and somehow it sounds very, very wrong, but Enjolras knows that his friend means another chance to contribute to their group. It’s not that he hasn’t given him various opportunities to participate. He’s assigned him numerous tasks that the dark-haired man always failed to accomplish. “He cares more than he thinks he does.” Only he doesn’t.

And then Grantaire and Éponine disappear into the crowd, holding hands and running like children. Combeferre squeezes his shoulder gently. “I’m going to find Joly and Bossuet. They’re both completely freaked out about becoming fathers, and they’re driving poor Musichetta insane.”

Enjolras nods. “Sure, go on, I’ll join you in a minute.”

It’s only after Combeferre has disappeared and meddled with the people that Enjolras realizes what a bad idea that was.

Grantaire is walking towards him, a teasing smile that doesn’t quite reach his blue eyes, forming on his lips.

*

“She just won’t hear me, Combeferre! I don’t know what I’m doing wrong!” whimpers Joly. “I keep reminding her that eating healthily is the most crucial part in a woman’s pregnancy, and she keeps threatening me that if I don’t get the cat back from Bahorel and Feuilly’s she’ll castrate me! And that would only be unfortunate because I’d really like to have another child… not yet of course. I mean, at _some_ point of my life it would be quite nice…”

Bossuet ruffles Joly’s hair. “Hey baby,” he says softly, “it’s okay. You’re forcing her to eat beans and grains, how do you think she should react?” Combeferre smiles guiltily for a minute when his eyes meet with Bossuet’s, because Joly doesn’t know that the rest of les Amis have been secretly providing Musichetta with pizza and chocolate to save her from this martyrdom. Then Bossuet shrugs his shoulders to Combeferre’s direction. “When I tried to help Joly with his noble quest a bit, and talked to her about all the conservatives in the food she wants to eat, the only word she caught was _fat_ and she hit me with a packet of diapers!”

Combeferre chuckles softly. “She is hormonal, Bossuet, you don’t need to worry about her reactions! Just try to remind her how beautiful she is every day!” And turning to Joly, he continues. “It is really admirable, the effort you’re doing, my friend!” he smiles encouragingly. “A healthy nutrition is indeed crucial for everyone’s wellbeing, don’t you think you’re being a little too stern, though? She’s just entered the ninth month, it will soon be over! Let her relax a bit, she will soon need emotional peace and physical strength much bigger than all of ours put together.”

Joly shudders in horror. “Oh my God, how is she going to give birth to _twins_? She’s so delicate and…”

“You’re far more delicate than Musichetta, baby. You caught two colds this month.”

“Don’t remind me,” flinches Joly. “I had to wear a surgical mask and move to the couch for two weeks just for Musichetta to be on the safe side!”

“They were just _colds_ , you weren’t dying…”

Combeferre sighs and pats Joly’s shoulder. “You’ll soon become a doctor, you know very well that women can handle birth.”

“There is a record of women who have died…”

“You’re not being radical. Musichetta will be in the best of hands and nothing will happen to her. You’ll soon have your beautiful babies and…”

“And what if we become _shit_ dads? I mean, I’ll probably drop the babies the minute I hold them and overheat their milk and burn their little tongues…”

Joly looks on the verge of tears. “Please stop, Boss! You won’t do any of these!”

“Joly is right, Bossuet. You both will be wonderful dads.” Joly opens his mouth to speak but Combeferre holds up a hand. “And no, your children won’t develop the summer-born syndrome. Neither will they ever face any problems for growing up with two fathers which, if you want my opinion, is positively amazing.”

“You think so?”

“Absolutely!”

Joly exhales deeply. “Thank you, Combeferre! You’re such a life savior!”

“Now, now, no need to exaggerate…”

*

Enjolras tries to fix his eyes on Bahorel who is surrounded by a group of giggling girls, trying to take a heartbroken Feuilly who has recently broken up with his girlfriend to join them. It turns out that this is particularly hard when Grantaire is standing right before him.

“Having fun, aren’t you?” the man smirks and Enjolras already feels annoyed at his tone.

“Immense,” he replies, looking around and refusing to meet his eyes.

“I see,” mutters Grantaire, leaning lazily against the buffet, a glass of champagne –probably the eighth- wrapped between his fingers. They’re standing side by side now, staring at the dance floor and never at each other. “Good thing it’s a snowless December so that you don’t have any fear of getting snowed in this hotel and _never_ ” he makes a creepy voice “getting home to finish your noble deeds!”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “All Decembers will be snowless from now on,” he says blankly. “Global warming.”

“You really are no fun, are you?”

Enjolras really doesn’t know why on Earth he’s standing against a buffet, holding a drink he isn’t drinking, having a conversation with _Grantaire_ of all people. He feels extremely irritated by the man’s presence and he desperately wants to escape, no matter what it takes. “No,” he replies coldly with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, “I’m leaving all the fun to you.”

“That,” smirks Grantaire almost bitterly, “is an unwise idea. If you’ll excuse me…” He takes a dramatic bow, and turns around, disappearing into the crowd. Enjolras stands and stares at his direction, tapping his fingers on the buffet subconsciously in a tensed pace.

*

Combeferre pulls the brake in front of Montparnasse’s building and looks around. “Here you are, Jehan,” he smiles slightly. “See you tomorrow at the meeting.”

“Oh yes, I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” chirps Jehan, getting out of the car. “Thank you for the ride, Ferre!”

“Jehan?” he hears Combeferre’s voice from the driver’s seat while he’s walking to the door, and he stops and turns around.

“Yes, Ferre?”

“You know how much we all wholly admire you for your originality, but this is not a very nice neighbourhood. Just… be careful with that dress, okay?”

Jehan chuckles good-heartedly. “Don’t worry, it’s alright! I know more than well to defend myself!”

Jehan adores his friends, but he just happens to think that sometimes they are not really fond of his boyfriend. It is true that they do not have a lot in common with Montparnasse, but secretly he’d expect _their_ group of people out of everyone else to be more comfortable with a man who is… let’s say, more interesting and less legal in his actions than everybody else. It’s not that anyone in the group has ever been entirely too fixed on law, considering the fact that the three people studying it have the higher record of arrests during protests and rallies. Montparnasse treats him right and he is extraordinary, beautiful and mysterious and different than anything and anyone else in Jehan’s life.

No, it’s true that his friends don’t interfere. Not even Grantaire, Joly and Bossuet give their opinion, the biggest interferers in world’s history. Only Éponine has tried to give him advice about Montparnasse in the past, she said that they were bad for each other, but he loves Éponine and he knows that things have always been hard for her.

While waiting for the elevator to descend, he stares around the hallway of the building with the peeling walls. He heaves a small sigh. Christmas is coming and no one in the building has cared to decorate a bit, but then again who would? The drug dealer on the second floor or the quiet people on the third, who can hardly afford their groceries and he has tried to help them numerous times in the past without offending them.

He should probably bring some of his own ornaments that he’s left to Bahorel's or Grantaire’s, maybe those colorful lights Eponine hates and some mistletoe, it would lighten up the place and it would make it look warmer, a little more like Christmas.

The elevator is here and he enters, humming some song the awful DJ played today.

The door is unlocked and he makes his way in the apartment feeling rather cheerful and slightly tipsy. The heavy scent of smoke fills his nostrils and he makes his way to the bedroom, wondering whether ‘Parnasse has any of his horrible friends over when he should be sleeping his cold off.

He stops in the middle of the corridor. He can hear moans and orgasmic cries. ‘Parnasse is probably watching porn but he doesn’t know whether the female moans meddled with his own, familiar ones make Jehan feel really comfortable.

It’s alright. Of course Jehan does not mind that his boyfriend watches porn in his absence. It’s just that if Montparnasse was too sick to come to the wedding, then how can he be jerking off?

Jehan enters the room. There is a calendar with beautiful photography across the wall, Jehan gave it to Montparnasse. Twenty three days until Christmas.

Montparnasse is not alone. He is not watching porn.

And he most definitely does not have the flu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this weird image of Bahorel showing up with a black eye to marry Marius and Cosette, not knowing her real name! Also I'm so sorry for the cliche fanon way I used Montparnasse here but this already is a stupid AU so please accept my apologies.


	2. Until you're resting here with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah, I mean I can’t have a wedding photo album full with Jehan’s and Feuilly’s and your butt. No offense, I don’t mean anything about your butt…”
> 
> “Marius!” she stops him, shutting her eyes tighter and covering one ear with her palm. “It’s alright, okay? No offense taken. How can I help you? Burn the pictures? Burn Courfeyrac alive? I can do that.”
> 
> “No. I mean, you could help me burn the pictures, there’s even…” a shaky pause. “Cosette’s father in them. But that wasn’t what I wanted your help for.”
> 
> Éponine slowly begins to realize what is happening and she knows she can’t handle it, not right now, no fuckin’ way. _No_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised you I would update soon and I'll continue like that until the New Year's Eve :)  
> Here go more clichés but that's what this story is made of, so what can I do :P  
> Please leave your opinions and feedback, constructive criticism (especially when it comes to characterisations) means a lot to me!  
> Still not much E/R action, I know but from the next chapter this story will probably become E/R centric.  
> The title is from 'Here with me' by Dido, part of the Love Actually soundtrack.

“Don’t tell me _I told you so,_ ” Jehan growls angrily behind the tears swelling on his eyes.

“You know we never would,” Éponine stares at him sadly, nursing a hot cup of coffee, curled on the couch in a huge sweater and her feet pulled under her body. There are dark circles under her eyes, which is not much different from her usual appearance but it’s not hard to notice how more tired she looks after Marius and Cosette’s wedding. At least she looks much more herself with her lipring on. “I mean… he’s always been accepting towards my family which was good of him, but on those terms, he can get kind of an asshole.”

Gavroche enters the room, carrying a Nerf gun on his shoulder. “’Parnasse’s not an asshole,” he exclaims casually and Jehan snorts, even though he loves the kid.

Éponine narrows her eyes. “What would _you_ know?”

Gavroche shrugs his shoulders before proceeding to gather pillows from the couch. “Things.”

“Where did you find that Nerf gun?” Feuilly raises an eyebrow. “I don’t remember any of us having money to buy it to you recently.”

“A friend o’ mine gave it to me,” the boy shrugs his shoulders mischievously.

“So young yet so accomplished,” mutters Jehan absently.

“You stole it, you little shit, didn’t you?” growls Éponine.

“Dunno what you’re talking about, sis.”

“The question is, how did you manage to steal a whole fuckin’ _Nerf gun_?” Feuilly poses the question more to himself than to Gavroche.

The truth is that Montparnasse has accepted Éponine and her shitty family when hardly anyone else did, and his past affairs with her had been something she had immediately consented in when she was in her _really_ bad days, but it took her long to stand again on her feet when they broke up. Montparnasse didn’t do her good, and they all knew he didn’t do any good to Jehan either.

“The thing is that I’m practically homeless now,” Jehan mumbles. “My landlady gave the room away after I moved in _his_ place.”

“You know you can stay with us until you find a place. Until _forever_!” Grantaire replies and Éponine nods. “We’ll get pissed drunk and watch porn and hate our lives together.”

“Sounds lovely,” Jehan chuckles bitterly. “Thank you, I really appreciate it,” he throws his fingers in Éponine’s hair and starts stroking it absent-mindedly.

“You can stay with me and Bahorel too. It’s a small place but we have a couch, I guess,” offers Feuilly before throwing a suspicious glance at Gavroche and his pillows. “What are you up to, minion?” It’s alright while it’s still only the pillows, but when chairs and the DVD player follow, the artist starts fearing for the state of his easel which is staying temporarily with Grantaire’s.

“Building a barricade," hums the boy. "I'm bored."

Grantaire lights a cigarette and offers Jehan another, which the poet accepts gratefully. They’re curled together on the couch, Grantaire’s arms wrapped around Jehan’s tiny, slumped figure. “I would get up and help you dude,” he addresses Gavroche, “but I’m too poor, too drunk and too fucked up to do anything right now.”

“Aren’t we all?” croaks Éponine from the other side of the couch, resting her head on Jehan’s lap and hanging her legs from the arm of the sofa and taking Grantaire’s cigarette from between his lips, to take a drag for herself.

“It’s a bit sadistic of all of you to have a smoke without giving _me_ any, isn’t it?” Feuilly asks sarcastically and when it comes to Feuilly they all know that yes, it is very sadistic indeed.

“Don’t worry, ol’ chap,” Gavroche has stood up, now patting Feuilly’s arm with a serious expression on his face. “I need at least one good role model in this place.”

Feuilly rolls his eyes because he’d rather do that than really consider the role models with which Gavroche is growing up. Not that they’re any less perfect. Gavroche couldn’t have anyone care more for him than Éponine and Grantaire, especially considering the fact that he could have grown up in the streets, and his friends may have their problems, but they’ve done an admirable job in that ever since Éponine was barely an adult herself.

“How is my costume going?” the boy asks, returning to his barricade.

Feuilly points at the ceiling. “It’s upstairs, in our flat. You can come and see. Bahorel is there with Joly and Bossuet.”

“Is he getting them drunk again?”

“Of course he is. Poor men are so freaked out. Musichetta threatened them with boiled water today. Bossuet had a breakdown. He feared the babies would be born bald, which we told him they probably would, but he was convinced they’d never eventually grow hair. I’ll go later to make sure they’re all alive and there are no eggplants falling from the balcony this time.” He turns to Gavroche again. “Tell me now, why the hell do you need a lobster costume?”

Gavroche gives him a proud look behind the furniture barricade in the middle of the living room. “They gave roles for the nativity play in school. I’m the lobster.”

Grantaire almost chokes on his beer. “The _lobster_? In the nativity play?”

“First lobster!”

It’s Éponine’s turn to shoot her brother an incredulous glance behind the smoke of her cigarette. “So were there more than one lobsters in the nativity play?”

Gavroche has started looking tired, as if he’s the adult and they’re the oblivious children. “Um, duh? What the ‘ell did they teach you at school, ‘Ponine?”

Éponine and Grantaire exchange glances while Jehan cracks a small smile. “I find it fascinating.”

“Of course you do!” Feuilly smiles tenderly at him. It’s really awful to see Jehan so heartbroken, along with his two other friends, knowing there’s nothing he can do to help them. “Come on, minion,” he extends his hand for Gavroche and stands up. “Let’s check on your costume and make sure they’re all alive.” Gavroche heads to the door without taking his older friend’s hand. “Will you lonely hearts club band be alright?” asks Feuilly hesitantly before following the boy upstairs, to the apartment he shares with Bahorel.

“We’ll be fine,” murmurs Jehan with a sad smile. “Christmas is just around the corner.”

“That’s a reason not to be alright,” says Grantaire hoarsely, but no one comments. They all know how much their friend hates Christmas and fails to get into the spirit every year. Feuilly just sighs and retires to his apartment to work on a half-finished lobster costume.

*

“Courfeyrac, you really are a very talented photographer, don’t get me wrong, it’s just…”

“Are all these pictures of _butts_?”

In all honest, Combeferre could not have posed the question more accurately than an incredulous Enjolras did.

“Hey, it’s _art_!” protests Courfeyrac defensively. “You know nothing of it!”

“Courfeyrac, Marius expects pictures and videos of his wedding,” sighs Enjolras tiredly before returning to the article he had been writing. “Not pictures of his guests’ _backsides_.”

“You say that because you haven’t yet seen Grantaire’s,” winks Courfeyrac, and Enjolras focuses on his laptop because he most definitely _does not_ wish to see Grantaire’s bottom, for no reason in the universe.

But then he doesn’t know what drives him to raise his eyes, just for an innocent glimpse _._ Out of pure curiosity. Because it is an issue that does not concern him at all, but what difference would it make if he looked? For science?

The screen of the laptop on Courfeyrac’s lap is showing a man dancing in a suit, his flaring blazer and tight black trousers. It is Grantaire, Enjolras knows it is, and he has never felt more ridiculous in his life but at the same time he doesn’t know why he can’t take his eyes away from the goddamn laptop.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Courfeyrac’s teasing voice brings him back to reality and he snaps his eyes away from the laptop and back to his own. He doesn’t have to look at his best friend to know the way he’s staring at him, he knows that look, hell he can _feel_ it piercing his skin and as much as he loves him, right now he also wishes to kill him slowly and painfully.

“You are impossible,” mutters Enjolras, frowning behind his article without really looking, struggling to avoid Combeferre’s glance, but just then he realizes that his other best friend is not staring at him because he simply lets an approving hum.

“Jehan,” explains Courfeyrac with a hint of dreaminess in his voice. “Such a beautiful dress! Hey, look at that one!”

“Alright, now I’m scarred for life! Is that Marius’ grandfather?”

“Pretty much! And… that.”

“That’s a pretty admirable… shot. Who is it?”

Courfeyrac elbows Combeferre’s ribs, winking mysteriously. “Why, that’s our dear ‘Ponine! Didn’t you recognize her?”

Enjolras slowly and menacingly turns his head to face Combeferre. “So,” he narrows his eyes and almost hisses. “You too?”

Combeferre frowns seriously behind his spectacles. “I don’t find a reason for you to be upset, Enjolras. As Courfeyrac clearly stated, we are exchanging opinions concerning a merely artistic procedure!”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. One has to be very close to Combeferre to know that he is not exactly likes the first impression he makes.

“Why are you so grumpy, o captain my captain?” Courfeyrac’s voice becomes gentler, slightly worried as he nudges him in the ribs, earning absolutely no reaction.

“You are indeed looking a little off lately,” great, now Combeferre sounds worried too.

“Cheer up,” cries Courfeyrac, ruffling his mop of blond hair. “Christmas is coming!”

“Exactly,” grimaces Enjolras, staying still and typing, not stirring from his position. “That’s the problem.”

Combeferre sighs deeply, exchanging a meaningful glance with Courfeyrac. He knows that Enjolras has always hated Christmas. It’s a celebration that does not say anything to him religiously, and it has always meant obligatory parties at his parents’ house, having to pull a mask and pretend that it was alright to all those filthy rich assholes that he hated being around, it has been a distraction, a _nuisance_ and a consuming feast of pretentiousness and charity that lasted for a month, when there were such important changes to be done, people to actually be stirred and saved.

Nevertheless it had been his own initiative that their little group of activists worked very hard every year to offer the homeless people of Paris a decent Christmas and all this took immense energy to be organized. Now thankfully they had the aid of Cosette’s father who had always been a particularly charitable man. Combeferre couldn’t help but admire Enjolras and the work he did every Christmas, full of passion and determination.

“I know your oppositions,” he mutters gently, “but do you reckon it’d do you any harm to try to enjoy yourself a little bit this Christmas, give yourself over to the spirit which really, disguising interests or not, is about fraternity and equality?”

Enjolras does not reply, simply changes the subject to the upcoming meeting of this week. “Has any of you talked to Jehan lately? He was supposed to have emailed me the plans about the hospital volunteering program.”

“Enjolras,” starts Combeferre carefully. “Give him a little time. Jehan broke up with Montparnasse.”

“Oh really?” Enjolras raises his eyes from his laptop, genuinely sorry for his friend. “I had always thought that guy was a...”

“Major fuckin’ dickhead, we already know,” says Courfeyrac grumpily. “The thing is that now Jehan has nowhere to live.”

The blonde immediately seems concerned and asks the obvious: “Cosette and Marius are now living together and you’re moving out next week in a brand new apartment! Why don’t you invite him to stay with you, at least temporarily?”

Combeferre lets a small sigh behind Courfeyrac’s back. “Do you think I’ve not suggested that already? He doesn’t want to.”

“But… why?” Enjolras’ puzzled eyes move from Combeferre to Courfeyrac and back. “I mean, we’d surely tell him to settle down with us, but there’s hardly any space in this apartment, when you’ll have one all on your own!”

“I can’t,” murmurs Courfeyrac. “You don’t understand.”

“That’s true, I most definitely do not understand,” nods Enjolras. “Have you argued recently? You two have always been such good friends!”

“The thing is,” Combeferre starts explaining carefully, as if Enjolras is a five year old boy, “that Courfeyrac wants them to be something _more_ than just friends.”

Courfeyrac throws his head back and moans dramatically, in a manner that resembles sounds of a dying whale. “I can’t do it, I _can’t_ touch Jehan! He’s so…”

“Jehan is neither fragile nor innocent, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre remarks seriously. “He surely needs some time to recover from his break up but he certainly can make his own decisions. You can’t go on pretending forever! Maybe you’ll be good for him and I think he’ll be good for you too!”

“And he has such a nice ass!” The mourning, whiny sounds are very disturbing indeed and Enjolras really needs to finish his article. “I shall fight with body and soul for that floral ass!”

“Then invite him to stay at your place,” croons Combeferre, settling a huge, dusty anatomy book on his lap.

“I don’t see how this can happen. You sleep with a different girl or guy every other night! Sometimes with all of them together!” he states with slight confusion in his voice.

Courfeyrac turns to face Combeferre, looking exasperated. “Listen, I’m too sober to do this. Nobody warned me that coming here today would mean discussing my love life with _Enjolras_.”

Combeferre nods understandingly, trying to hide a small smile as Courfeyrac gets up and heads to the kitchen. “You call love life the collection of backside pictures?” murmurs Enjolras when he is out of sight, but Courfeyrac hears him and peeks his cheerful head out of the kitchen door.

“I call _your_ love life the wet dreams R’s perky bum in suit pants gives you!” And with that, he blows a kiss in the air before proceeding to make very shirtless waffles for the three of them.

*

“Why are Joly and Bossuet passed out on our couch dressed as Black Widow and Iron Man accordingly?” Feuilly raises a hand as Bahorel opens his mouth to explain. “No, I changed my mind. Don’t answer to that question. _Why_ did you let them into my children’s party costume wardrobe in first place?”

“Easy, tiger,” growls Bahorel, dragging his drunken beary form in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a disturbingly tight vest and a pair of leather pants. “Hormonal Musichetta sounds fuckin’ terrifying.” Instead of making a coffee for himself, which had seem more expected, he collapses on a chair and stifles a massive yawn. “Coffee.”

Feuilly raises an eyebrow. “Honestly? I have to finish a lobster costume and…”

But Bahorel has dissolved into hysterical, barking laughter. “Are you going to dress as a lobster now? A ginger fuckin’ lobster! Makes even more sense than the ginger GINGERBREAD MAN!”

Feuilly sighs wearily, resting his back against the kitchen counter. “It’s for Gavroche. And other than that, I’ve found a new job.”

Bahorel seems interested to that piece of information, so much that he throws himself up despite his obvious hangover and hits Feuilly on the back. “CONGRATULATIONS, SHITHEAD!” he flashes him a huge smile full of white teeth. “What job?”

Feuilly shakes his head. “I’m not going to share such vital piece of information with lazy assholes such as you, my darlingest.”

His bulky roommate proceeds to the coffee machine, feeling defeated. “Why so defensive, ginge? You look tensed. Maybe you should join me and R in the kickboxing classes, kick some shit and feel better at once!”

Feuilly frowns. “I don’t see how being violent will make me feel better.” He opens the fridge, searching for some eggs. “Has Grantaire spoken to you at all at classes?”

Bahorel nods, wiping his hands in a towel. “Always the same. Will forever deny it.”

The weary man snorts. “We should increase out bets. I can see them getting their shit together by Christmas.”

Bahorel shakes his head. “New Year’s Eve. Enjolras is an oblivious butthead.”

Feuilly looks offended. “Enjolras is not an oblivious butthead! He just happens to have more in his mind than sex!”

“Yeah, it’s the huge fuckin’ crush you have on each other. _Oh Feuilly, mon ami, aren’t you and your beloved people just exquisite? Oh Enjolras, mon amour, your revolutionary ideas give me boners!_ ”

“The fact that we agree in many fundamental values and beliefs doesn’t mean…”

“Fewy, my dear. You need to get laid by Christmas. You can’t go on whining about whatshername forever. It’s just that you can’t keep jerking off to Brigitte Bardot’s poster, that’s just sad!”

The man’s freckled face becomes as red as the roots of his head. “You’re a sexist pig! Cecille left me because you dropped your dirty underwear to the bathroom floor and you kept offering her a threesome!” he says incredulously. “I know _you_ jerk off to my poster too, so don’t try to…”

Bahorel waves his hand dismissively in the air. “You’re like Enjolras. You wouldn’t understand a joke if it fucked you from the ass! Sod her, she was boring. Let uncle Bahorel find you a good shag, alright?”

“The things your girls scream in your room every night are enough to scar me for a lifetime, alright?” snaps Feuilly, before grabbing his coffee and walking out of the kitchen, forgetting about the pancakes he was about to make. “Screw you and your sex drive!”

Bahorel stands in the middle of the kitchen, kind of awestruck. “It’s not my fault I’m da bomb,” he mutters before following Feuilly in the kitchen. “HEY GINGE!” he shouts, startling a sleeping Joly and causing him to jump up in his turquoise dress and orange wig. “I’M SORRY FOR CALLING YOU UNSHAGGED. JOIN ME TO THE NOBLE QUEST OF BEATING THE FUCK OUT OF MONTPARNASSE?”

That indeed does sound like an excellent form of stress relief.

*

“Oh but we _really_ do need to hang out sometimes, Éponine!” Cosette’s cheerful voice echoes from the end of the line. “I’ve missed you so much, and there is no need for us to remain in the past!”

The phone is on speaker and Éponine is laying on the couch, not touching it, not really able to deal with it right now. She can’t dislike Cosette, it’s impossible, it’s just that she doesn’t exactly feel like talking to people right now, let alone to her. “Sure”, she mutters, “I mean, just say when!”

“Great, we can go shopping!”

“Yay, I love shopping,” Éponine says in the flattest voice possible, as if she’s exclaiming how much she despises calculus.

“Now, I have Marius on the end of the line,” Éponine almost forgets how to breathe. “He wanted to ask you something.” Silence. “’Ponine? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, actually I…”

“Please,” Cosette’s sweet voice becomes silent, almost careful, “don’t be too harsh on him. You were neighbors before you moved in with Grantaire and you introduced us to each other, but I know you aren’t on the best of terms with him like you used to be. Marius likes you, ‘Ponine, and he feels sad that you don’t anymore!”

Éponine gulps and shuts her eyes tightly, a huge lump on her throat, wanting to burst into hysteric cackling at the irony of the situation. “Listen Cosette, I have that thing…”

“’Ponine?”

She can feel her pulse picking up at the uncertain sound of his voice and she knows she is fucked from that very moment. She needs to find an excuse to hang up, something to do, a rehearsal to drop Gavroche, an extra shift at work…

“Hey, Marius.”

“Um, hi. I wanted to ask you a favor… I mean, how are you?”

She shuts her eyes in exasperation because she really, _really_ can’t do this right now. “I’m fine, and you?”

“Fine. Thank you.”

A sigh. “So? You wanted to ask a favor.”

“Oh right. Yeah. A favor. Listen, Éponine. I had asked Courfeyrac to take some photos and videos of the wedding apart from the professional ones because you know, I wanted photos of my friends et cetera. I understand that he was the best man and had a lot in mind, but I have a suspicion that he might have done this on purpose…”

“He only took photos of butts, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” Marius sounds puzzled. “How did you know?”

Éponine rolls her eyes. “It’s Courfeyrac.”

“Yeah, I mean I can’t have a wedding photo album full with Jehan’s and Feuilly’s and your butt. No offense, I don’t mean that your butt…”

“Marius!” she stops him, shutting her eyes tighter and covering one ear with her palm. “It’s alright, okay? No offense taken. How can I help you? Burn the pictures? Burn Courfeyrac alive? I can do that.”

“No. I mean, you could help me burn the pictures, there’s even…” a shaky pause. “Cosette’s father in them. But that wasn’t what I wanted your help for.”

Éponine slowly begins to realize what is happening and she knows she can’t handle it, not right now, no fuckin’ way, no.

“I noticed you filming a lot so I was wondering…”

No, no, _no…_ It slowly sinks like a weight in her stomach in that very tiny voice because this can’t be fuckin’ happening.

“I’d be really grateful if you showed me that video, or pictures or whatever it was you were filming.”

“No!”

Marius sounds a little surprised. “What?”

“I mean… no. No I can’t possibly show the video to you. It’s too bad. I’m nowhere near as talented as Courfeyrac when it comes to filming. My hands are all shaky and my camera is ancient, I mean it still works with videotapes.”

“We can work this out, I guess. You have a tape camera therefore you must have a VHS player as well at your place, don’t you?”

“NO! No, it… it broke down.”

“Then maybe I can help you fix it! I’m good at that stuff, I fixed Cosette’s dad’s food mixer the other day, on my own!”

Éponine throws her head back on the couch, in exasperation. “I don’t think you’ll be able to fix it. And really, I don’t remember where I’ve put that tape.”

“Don’t worry, ‘Ponine, we’ll find it! I’m coming over at five. Five is good, isn’t it?”

No no NO it isn’t fuckin’ good, for fuck’s sake! It’s the worst idea she has heard in her entire life.

She wants to see him.

FUCKSAKE find some dignity, Thénardier!

“Great. Five is great.”

*

Éponine’s heart is pounding like a tambour in her chest. There is no way for her to believe what is about to happen to herself, all she can think about is finding a way out of this, a way to not fuck everything up even more than it already is.

But the bell is already ringing and she hasn’t found a place to hide the tape yet and her heart is pounding madly in his chest because she’s _fucked._

Here he is, smiling that ridiculous, awkward smile which fills her stomach with disgusting butterflies as if she was a fifteen year old virgin.

“Hey,” she says and it comes out more as a croak.

“Hello,” says Marius politely, “I’ve brought you cookies,” he hands her a paper box and enters past her in the apartment before she is able to stop him. “You like chocolate, don’t you?” A nervous laugh. “Courfeyrac always said I was a crap baker but Cosette likes those…”

When she realizes that she has scrunched up her nose mostly at the mental image of the young couple baking and laughing together in the kitchen, covered in flower and licking chocolate off of each other’s nose mostly than the cookies themselves which smell good, after, all, it’s already too late.

“Sod those,” murmurs Marius a little disappointed. “It’s just… I know we’re not in as good terms as we used to be when we first met as neighbors and you clearly didn’t leave me alone…”

She sighs deeply, resisting the urge to laugh at his face. “Marius…”

“Look, don’t argue.” He says dramatically. “I know. We’ve _been_ friendly in the past yet we aren’t anymore and I don’t know why. I’m _sorry_ I laughed at your English that day, okay? I’ve apologized.”

“No, it’s not that. I was being serious when I said I didn’t know where the bloody tape was. Sorry and all that, and thanks for the cookies, and I wish I could help you…”

“I’m nice! I really am, apart from my terrible baking skills and the fact that I tend to forget in which language I’m speaking.” The smiles of regret for something he hasn’t really done and he doesn’t even know what it is genuine on his baby face and she wants to groan in distress. “It would be great if we could be…”

“Absolutely,” Éponine hears himself mumbling quickly. “It doesn’t mean we’ll be able to find the video though.” Before she’s able to finish her sentence Marius Pontmercy has made a stride to the video tape collection and has taken one in his hand, causing something to sink low in Éponine’s chest. “This one says Marius and Cosette’s wedding, do you think we might be on the right track?”

“Wow shit, _shit_ that… that could be it! Look what one finds…”

Marius reaches for the ancient video player and Éponine makes desperate attempts to stand between them, waving her hands ridiculously in the air. “I’ve probably taped over it though, at least four episodes of Game of Thrones…”

Marius stops and stares at her for an instant of immense relief. “Who _tapes_ Game of Thrones?” and then he simply proceeds in shoving the video tape in the player and Éponine freezes at her place. Before she is able to help anything, Marius appears, waiting at the end of the aisle in his bridal suit, all flushed up and shaking slightly, a wide grin on his face. “Oh, ‘Ponine,” he exclaims, “that’s amazing! Such good quality, and to think this is VHS tapes! So vintage! Thank you!” Bahorel is waving his hands in the air, beginning the ceremony with a black eye, Jehan appears in a close up, sniffling in a handkerchief and near him Courfeyrac, beaming charmingly, Grantaire makes a grimace at the camera and Enjolras is standing somewhere in the crowd with Combeferre, posture perfect and face straight. Joly and Musichetta are crying in Bossuet’s shoulders and a gingerbread man bursts in the hall. “This is gorgeous!” Marius is almost hyperventilating. “Exactly what I wanted!”

And then he shows up again, his face, his hair, his smile, the camera lowers at his excellent suit, his arm and his hand, fingers twitching nervously and finally entwining with silky, pale and delicate ones, perfectly French manicured, and one expects the camera to make its way up and follow Cosette’s lace wrapped arm, and then show her pretty hair and stunning face and beautiful wedding gown.

But it doesn’t. Marius waits and it doesn’t. It’s just their hands, clasped together and then it does go up only to follow Marius’ black sleeve, focus on his jacket and then his face. The real Marius looks baffled but smiles anyway. “I look quite handsome, don’t I?” he makes an attempt to joke, but then the video continues and there’s more Marius, Marius tripping on his feet while walking down the stairs, Marius kissing Cosette and then pulling away, Marius smiling, Marius eating cake from her spoon and biting her finger, Marius drinking champagne with their arms crossed together, and the real Marius doesn’t understand and he expects this to be some amateurish directing trick, he expects the rest of the video to only feature Cosette and he mutters a “where is Cosette?” but then there is more Marius, Marius’ head resting on Cosette’s shoulder as they dance, Marius dancing with Courfeyrac and then Marius running out of the hall with Cosette’s hand in his own, barefoot…

Silence falls.

“They’re all of me,” it’s but a whisper.

“Well, yeah…” she says hoarsely, sunken and numb, unable to think or to react as she’s witnessed the whole fiasco of her ridicule unveiled before her very eyes.

“But… but…” Marius messes his words. “You never talk to me! Haven’t since those epic rambles when I first met you, at least... You don’t like me anymore!”

“I hope it’s close to what you wanted, don’t show it around too much,” she hears himself croaking in a strangled voice, “and for heaven’s sake, don’t show it to Cosette.” She walks to the door, feeling her whole body burning with shame. “Look, I gotta go pick Gavroche from his… you know, his rehearsal at school. See yourself out, help yourself with the cookies, ok?” She turns around and walks to the door, completely frozen, and just before she opens it and peers outside, she stops and faces the dumbstruck man on her couch. “It’s a self-preservation thing,” she simply says before bursting outside on the cold streets of Paris, kicking a wall with her boot and hurting her leg in the process which makes her let out a demented cry, causing people to jump up and look at her. But she’s used to people looking at her, and just then she realizes that it’s raining, and she’s running away from her building, the rhythm of her feet matching the thumping of her heart.

*

The second meeting of their group which is focused on the homeless Christmas plan doesn’t go entirely too well.

Joly and Bossuet are absent because Musichetta has an ultrasound appointment, so is Éponine for reasons unknown to the rest of them. Marius has that puzzled, distant look on his face throughout the rest of the meeting and Cosette worries, while Jehan is not his usual, creative and helpful though slightly melancholic self. No. Jehan now is _just_ melancholic and it’s obvious he’s not making any effort which consists in him dressing in surprisingly matching outfits which are pulled together completely by luck, as _now_ he doesn’t seem to pull any effort. However questionable his fashion sense might have been in the past, however, Courfeyrac doesn’t want to see him in those faded jeans and dark turtlenecks, (not he doesn’t always look beautiful, even when dark and distant, with circles under his eyes), it’s just that he _knows_ when Jehan feels sad and the fact that he can’t do anything to help is unbearable.

“A plate of food won’t give your homeless a happy fuckin’ Christmas. They’re always going to hate their lives and hate themselves and hate this soddin’ society. Why don’t you just deal with the fact that you can hardly change the situation?” Grantaire snorts from the table in the corner of the Musain and Combeferre stares at Enjolras cautiously because they know that now that Musichetta has left her post at the Musain to give birth, the new waitress isn’t going to tolerate their potential fighting.

Enjolras, however, does not seem willing to let this fall. “A plate of food, or rather the complete meals we’re planning to prepare, as well as the clothes, blankets and medical care we’re going to provide them with on a better degree than that we _already_ struggle to provide –not because Christmas should be any different from their lives all year long, it’s just that now we don’t have classes thus more time to prepare and work- _are_ going to keep them warm and fill their stomachs, without which one cannot begin to strive for happiness. Also I find it distasteful of you to say that they hate everything only because _you_ obviously do. There are people with hope out there, young people whose lives can change if we never stop fighting for their rights and equal opportunities.”

“They don’t want you to save them.”

“I don’t…” Enjolras throws him an incredulous glance, the tension palpable through the room like every time they fight, forgetting that all of their friends are surrounding them.

“You do. And they don’t. They hate you because whether you like it or not, you’re _different_ from them.”

“We are all different yet we’re all _people._ ”

“Wow, I see you were paying attention at kindergarten, Apollo! Only it seems to slip your attention that _some_ of those people go to private schools and live in three story houses.”

Courfeyrac can already smell the war which is about to start as Enjolras is standing, red faced with clenched fists and Grantaire apathetic, smirking sarcastically in the way that would piss off the calmest of men. His eyes meet with Jehan’s and his heart skips a beat, because they seem to share the same thought. Jehan rolls his eyes at their friends’ direction with a small smile, and before he knows it Courfeyrac is gesturing at the door with his eyes. Jehan looks behind him before he realizes that Courfeyrac is inviting him outside the café, and muttering an excuse in which no one pays real attention, gets up and follows the brunet.

The cold December air hits their faces and they rest against the wall of the café, smiling faintly. “I’m glad I’m out of there,” mutters Courfeyrac.

“Me too,” agrees Jehan, “thank you for that. Do you think Enjolras will get mad at us?”

“Enjolras won’t even notice our absence,” Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow. “They’re too busy radiating sexual tension with each other.”

Jehan leaves a half-hearted chuckle. “I know. These two are completely impossible.”

“Do you think they’ll ever put their shit together and fuck?”

“Oh believe me, it’s only a matter of time!”

They stand silent for a while until Jehan shudders. Courfeyrac understands, he’s freezing himself. “Here, have this,” he takes off his coat and hands it to Jehan who is only in his turtleneck. The poet stares at him in mild amusement. “Courf, I’m not a maiden in distress.”

“No,” nods the boy, “but you are half my size and you have forgotten your jacket inside.”

Jehan allows Courfeyrac wrap the navy coat around him with a sigh.

“I wanted to ask you something.”

Jehan turns to face him a little startled. “Yes?”

“I know you’re searching for an apartment. I mean, you’re staying with Grantaire and Éponine but it’s already crowded with Gavroche and hardly bigger than fifty meter squares.”

Jehan bites his lower lip, smiling sadly. “I know, it is indeed crowded and I _am_ searching for an apartment, just not… now. The money they pay me at the florist is hardly enough to afford a place of my own but I still can pay one third of the rent and share it with the others. Why? Do you have a place in mind?”

The other man takes a deep breath. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

Jehan immediately looks interested, pulling the coat which is huge for him tighter around his body. “Oh is that so? Where?”

Courfeyrac has never been one to walk round a subject, so he gets straight to the point. “Cosette is moving in with Marius so I’ve found a place. It’s fairly nice and spacious.”

“Courfeyrac…”

“I don’t need half the rent yet. You’ll pay me back when you have the money.”

“I can’t stay at your place without being able to pay all of my share!”

“Look, I’m not proud to admit that but the money my family sends me every month is more than enough to cover all of it. Besides, I hate living alone. I need company, I’m _used_ to living with company. I was about to publish an advertisement for flatmates but there’s no one else that would fit me better than you, and we’ve known each other for years! It will be fun, I promise! I’m such a good flatmate! I make the best waffles and I really don’t go around naked apart from naked Wednesdays…”

“Courf…” there is a hint of amusement on Jehan’s warning look.

“Okay don’t worry about that, I mean we can always make them naked Thursdays! I promise, I do sing in the bathroom but I sing fuckin’ _well_ and you can always borrow my clothes, if you like, apart from the heart sunglasses because touch them and you’ll die…”

“Courfeyrac,” Jehan’s cheeks have turned rosy, probably from the cold. “I can’t just… move in with you.”

Courfeyrac’s smile falls and he suddenly looks serious and challenging. “Why not?” Jehan remains silent. “Come on, give me a reason.” The smaller man lowers his eyes but Courfeyrac places his thumb beneath his jaw and raises it, forcing him to look at him. “It will be good for you.”

Jehan looks thoughtful for a while and it seems like a shadow suddenly comes to cover his features, but then his eyes meet with Courfeyrac’s and he smiles like he hasn’t in days.

_Why not?_

_*_

The apartment is full with boxes and packets and Éponine is breaking the bubbles from the wrapping paper while Grantaire vandalizes the booze stash –as no one’s currently paying attention- and Combeferre is making sure nothing gets broken. All the boys are in the apartment Courfeyrac and Marius used to share, carrying Courfeyrac’s things to the truck that’s waiting outside. Courfeyrac himself is considerably helpful, apart from the moments where he emotionally breaks down and whines _God I did love that DVD player, lemme kiss it!_ and _What an exquisite ceiling that was, how I’ll miss the piles in the bathroom_ or _Naked Wednesdays shall never be the same _sans toi_ , Pontsquirrel _and _I had my first official college wank on the Gandalf TV_! He is jumping around with his beloved camera in hand, capturing all the spots he’s going to miss and his friends most ridiculous grimaces as they carry the stuff –Enjolras’ eye rolls, Feuilly’s demonstrative yawns and Joly’s nervous cheek thing he doesn’t know he has, are the best by far. He knows they’d skin him if he just stood there and fake sniffled or bonded with lovely Cosette if it weren’t his last day in the apartment, but today they’re going to spoil him and he’s more than eager to make the best of it.

Ah, it’s delightful. Grantaire soon joins them in their quest, tipsier than safe and starts rambling shit from Greek mythology which apparently have some deep connection with the washing machine. Enjolras is carryinh a cupboard on his back without accepting any help, struggling a little as Joly follows him, shouting he’s going to get Combeferre has joined Bossuet and Feuilly in their singing –and the three of them have lovely voices, damn ‘Ferre and his sexual orientation- while an overwhelmingly strong, tiny Jehan is lifting huge boxes of massive textbooks, denying Bahorel’s help –who appears to be sweaty and shirtless as he does the work, even in December, and Bahorel’s tattooed muscles is always a sight for one to enjoy.

He’s currently weeping over the pink toaster he bought a couple of years ago and decided to leave as a gift for the young couple –apart from the whip and the furry handcuffs, as well as a wedding friendly subscription to their local strip club and the last technology waffle-maker- and Cosette’s patting him comfortingly on the back when he hears a deep voice behind him which hardly matches the source. He turns around to find Jehan, his ginger hair disheveled and loose from the braid that kept it together, his cheeks flushed from the weightlifting and his neck shining with a thin sheen of sweat. Courfeyrac can swear that never in his life has he seen him more beautiful than right now, in a mudded pair of hiking boots two sizes too big and a huge grey shirt that belongs to Grantaire, hanging over his prominent collarbones and bony, freckled shoulders almost gracefully. “Get your lazy ass over here and help us help you, you dick!” the man hisses.

Courfeyrac can’t help but chuckle. “And what a precious ass it is!”

Jehan raises an eyebrow. “You’re full of shit.”

“I know, that’s why you all love me!”

They dissolve into laughter and follow Cosette who’s gone back to packing. Courfeyrac does a great job ignoring the way his heart marches in his chest when the pale man, looking much more cheerful than he has in ages, prods him playfully on the rib. They soon end up in a tickle fight in which most of the group soon joins, and which grants him with an excellent view of a streak of Jehan’s flat abdomen as the man wrestles with Bahorel on the bubbly wrapping material.

*

Jehan moves in the new apartment a couple of days later, with a little more help of their friends. Courfeyrac thinks that living with him will be lovely and easy, smooth as fuck.

The hell it isn’t.

Living with Jehan is the most difficult thing Courfeyrac has attempted since The Day of Silence (both of which were for a reason particularly important to him). Jehan isn’t intrusive or noisy or nosy. Everything would have been much easier if Jehan was a typical terrible flatmate because, in all honest, Courfeyrac himself is the _definition_ of a terrible flatmate. No. Jehan is quiet and lithe as a cat and he makes even Courfeyrac feel ashamed for some of his annoying habits. He comes out of the shower fully dressed in his pajamas with mismatching sock cladded feet, his long hair wet and flattened upon his neck and shoulders. He never interrupts Courfeyrac from whatever he’s doing unless it is to discuss something about the group or about bringing him a second blanket when it’s cold and some toast when he’s too bored to get up and make his way to the fridge despite the fact that Jehan usually forgets to feed himself for days, as he soon discovers, even though he never forgets to water the pot plants on his desk.

Jehan is apparently addicted to théine, as he drinks dozens of cups everyday –Courfeyrac once tried that raspberry tea and fuck it was _hideous-_ and spends dozens of hours in front of an ancient typing machine, typing really really slowly. If he was someone else, Courfeyrac would beg him to let him type it for him because such pace could get really, really nerve-wrecking. He would interrupt him with cat videos and newly-found porn, or just to show him a new way to whistle and he’d sneakily peek in his writings to see what they were about and if they were any good. But Jehan isn’t anyone else. Courfeyrac knows that his writing is much more than just good. Courfeyrac would never dare to sneak into his work even though every molecule of his body is _dying_ with the urge to know. Courfeyrac would never, ever dare to interrupt his peaceful expression when he finds him too lost in his thinking, biting a lip until he draws blood, his ginger hair pulled to a messy bun held by two pens on the top of his head and Courfeyrac has learnt to _love_ the soothing, slow sound of the fingers that fall on the keys of the machine.

Sometimes Jehan knits. He makes the most hideous color combinations and the ugliest, most clashing patterns. When he runs out of a color of thread he continues with the same color in a different shade or different thickness, causing his every work to look as if someone vomited wool all over his lap. He is more cheerful when he knits, he makes a few jokes and shares his predictions about Enjolras and Grantaire’s near future on bed. Courfeyrac never loses the opportunity to join him and play a videogame or read a book. His laughter is rare but precious, and Courfeyrac can’t miss a moment of it.

Sometimes Jehan smokes and Courfeyrac can’t stop imagining how awesome it’d be to smoke together, sprawled upon the couch, to drink and laugh and end up sharing the smoke from each other’s mouth, but Jean Prouvaire who had always been close and friendly is now distant, even though they share the same apartment, and politely withdraws to the balcony. Courfeyrac stays inside, stealing glimpses of his slim figure, bent and beautiful, his locks blowing in the wind, looking far away from this world.

In the mornings Jehan is stunning, drowsy and disheveled, sleep in his eyes and messy hair as he makes coffee for the both of them. He takes his own bitter like Grantaire’s and Courfeyrac is surprised to find out. They share a rather unusual silence, sipping their beverages, wrapped in thick jumpers before getting dressed and leaving for their classes. Courfeyrac hates silence, it makes him feel uncomfortable, but with Jehan he’s not bored. In the afternoon and the evening Jehan usually works at a florist’s near Place de la Concorde, apart from Sundays when they meet with the rest of the group. Sometimes, though rarely, the two of them watch movies. Disney classics and crappy horror films, and Courfeyrac thought it’d be cheesily easy, it _always_ is, he’d imagined Jehan clinging on him scared when it actually is _him_ who ends up clinging on Jehan who looks positively intrigued at the wicked, dark scenes. He’d imagined they’d slowly end up holding hands over the popcorn bowl, like it happens in rom-coms but it doesn’t. They have excellent conversations and they do things together, domestic, everyday things, like doing the dishes and discussing the newspaper but they don’t spend as much time as Courfeyrac had secretly dreamt of spending together.

When the night comes Jehan usually becomes dark. Most of the times they all hang out with the others. Some other times Éponine and Grantaire or Bahorel and Feuilly drag him out by force, some others it’s him who hangs out with Combeferre and Enjolras or Bossuet and Joly, leaving Jehan in the same pajamas he hasn’t changed for a week, dark circles under his eyes, nursing a bottle of white wine on his bed. He wishes he can stay behind, he wishes he can help but he has no idea how. Thankfully when things become darker he can count on Grantaire to take over, sometimes Éponine and Cosette.

Sometimes Courfeyrac is jealous. Sometimes he wishes that it would be him Jehan would open up to. Sometimes he wishes he’d let him in, he’d talk more and make it easier, but Jehan doesn’t, and he’s sad and beautiful and surrounded by words and silence and mystery, he discusses politics and philosophy with his plants and occasionally paints mint snowflakes on his toenails after threatening some bullies on the street with his knitting needles and punches some others in the guts. Jehan is wonderful and Courfeyrac has never felt more fucked in his life.


	3. It's written in the wind it's everywhere I go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, free hugs. Is that what you do?"  
> "There's nothing better for me to do. Maybe I can repay you with one for the coffee."
> 
> The boys go Christmas shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the E/R! Say hello to my babies!  
> I have written a free hugs fic before but I'm going to give free hugs on Christmas so it only seemed write I would put the scene here as well!  
> You're going to have much more of Combeferre's family in the future chapters. Feedback is more than welcome, I would love to hear your opinions!  
> The title is from the Love Actually soundtrack, from the song 'Christmas is all around' by Billy Mac.

Days pass and Christmas suddenly appears just a little more than a week away. Courfeyrac might have moved in a new apartment, but that will never prevent him from spending at least half of his day at Enjolras and Combeferre’s.

Enjolras loves Courfeyrac, he really does. Not only does he consider him a very dear friend, but he also immensely appreciates his passion and dedication when it comes to their causes, a passion he would do anything to witness upon other, cold and indifferent eyes. It’s just that Enjolras is feeling quite stressed out at the moment, drowning under tons of work to be done, both for University and for their group and also concerned about a certain golden envelope his desk, and Courfeyrac might become a handful when high on sugar. However Combeferre is a saint and is currently keeping Courfeyrac busy in a fervent conversation about celebrations in different religions. Enjolras should know, however that Courfeyrac would eventually get drunk in Christmas, despite any religious views, and bounce in the study in a festive apron after escaping Combeferre’s supervision. “Only eight days! We _really_ do need to go Christmas shopping!”

“Do so, with my blessings,” murmurs Enjolras absent-mindedly. “Take my credit card and buy a present for my dear mother, if you please. Something which will slightly upset her, if convenient.”

Courfeyrac tuts disapprovingly, with Combeferre on his heel, wiping his hands in a kitchen towel. “You’re very much mistaken, grumpy poo. You’re coming with us and you’re bound to enjoy every minute of it.”

“Yeah,” mutters Enjolras slowly, without raising his eyes from his notes, “no.”

“Whyyy?” whines Courfeyrac.

“Because,” Enjolras heaves a small sigh, “I absolutely hate shopping, let alone Christmas shopping.”

Courfeyrac’s green eyes narrow. “Dishonor on you,” he hisses offended, “dishonor on your reindeer!”

“Ferre, tell him I’m not coming.”

“Now, behave both of you, boys, or I’m afraid I’ll have to ground you.” Surprisingly enough Combeferre eyes him seriously behind his glasses. “I really do believe that getting out in festive Paris will do you good, Enjolras! It really is charming and you always make a considerable effort _not_ to notice.”

“I do go out,” protests Enjolras.

“College, protests and occasionally the grocer’s _in your pyjamas_  don’t really count as going out.”

“I hate you. So do my pyjamas.”

Courfeyrac waves his hand in the air dismissively before he makes his way to the kitchen with a huge, triumphant smile. “Honey, you know you love us!”

Apparently even Enjolras has to admit that Paris in Christmas is quite captivating. Snowless it may still be, but it is extremely cold and even though he naturally hates cold weather with a passion, he does appreciate the stray sunrays that peek behind the clouds and add a little bit of magic in the morning mist and the frozen clouds that escape their mouths. Combeferre makes sure they both remember their scarves and mittens and makes himself personally responsible of convincing Enjolras to put on his black beret –hats never were a problem for Courfeyrac. He’d easily hold a petition for top hats to come back to fashion, but for now he’s happily settled in a bright blue and red woolen beanie with ears and two braids.

“We should really go to Gallerie Lafayette!” sighs Courfeyrac dreamily but Enjolras hisses murderously. “Over my dead body am I entering this temple of sheer capitalism and acute exploitation of the masses! We’ll walk out of there puking gold and glitter and pretentiousness!”

His cheeks are already covered in red splotches from the cold when they arrive at the Champs Elysées and his nose is dripping slightly but his coat and scarf and considerably warm and the smiles on his friends’ faces are huge, so he supposes that the working time he’s sacrificing might be worth it after all. The decorations are beautiful and the atmosphere rather pleasant, as he decides after some walking in the foggy sunny weather. The streets are full with people of every age and color smiling and wrapped in several layers of wool and leather, musicians are playing carols in the street and all the other sorts of shows. The Christmas lights even in the morning –what a _horrible_ waste- are surprisingly charming, illuminating the skies around them and the Christmas market is set from the Arc de Triomphe up to the Place de la Concorde with the huge ferris wheel. Even though Enjolras hardly ever pays any attention to people’s physical appearance, he is somehow hooked by the warm colors of their clothes, reds and greens and browns and mustards, hats and boots and mittens, children laughing and meddling between their parents’ feet, around the wooden chalets with the sweets. The air smells clean, of cold and pine, of chocolate and mulled warm wine and roasted chestnuts and peppermint. Courfeyrac gets them crepes and the ever so perfect Combeferre manages to cover his nose and chin in chocolate. Enjolras can’t help but roll his eyes, but a smile is apparent on his face as they enter the various shops, seeking warmth behind glass doors and searching for presents for all of their friends.

It’s true that he manages to tolerate it for a while, even to appreciate the cheer which is radiating through the air and on his friends’ chatting, especially when they all enter a cozy, crowded bookshop and they literally have to drag each other (Combeferre a little more) outside only for one of them to spot another book again and again, and plead for _five more minutes_!

They have fun separating and searching for presents for each other. Enjolras buys Combeferre a wonderful encyclopedia of philosophy and Courfeyrac a Polaroid vintage camera which was on sale, as he knows he’s craved for one for quite a long time, and then they all gather together again and he finds himself in the glorious, warming position of searching gifts for Feuilly, whom he venerates and who most definitely deserves to have people caring for him. It makes him feel so much better to search for presents for his beloved friends, but soon he starts feeling suffocated. It’s true that he has made an enormous effort to make it, but people with huge bags in their hands, shopping more and more while others aren’t in the position to even afford a meal soon start crowding him, the endless racks of ridiculously expensive pieces of fabrics he can’t even tell apart and sweet interior deodorants make his head spin and he desperately needs some fresh air.

Combeferre is waiting in the queue to pay for Joly’s leather medical bag, having started to sweat uncontrollably in the various layers of clothing, holding his gloves and coat folded in his arm and remaining only in his elbow patched cardigan. Enjolras elbows his way through the other customers to reach him. “Where’s Courfeyrac?”

“Lingerie section,” Combeferre smiles faintly and shrugs his shoulders apologetically. “Don’t wanna know.”

“Right,” Enjolras mutters almost wearily, “listen, I’m going for a walk, okay?”

Combeferre nods. “We’ll call you when we’re done. Don’t forget your beret!”

Enjolras doesn’t even bother to roll his eyes before he bursts out of the asphyxiating store and to the cold air of the streets. He starts walking, broadening his step and shoving his hands down the pockets of his red pea coat. His thoughts are travelling far away, making calculations and plans for the Christmas meals and trying not to think of the nightmare of his parents’ charity gala. The world around him is a blur, like every other time his mind is occupied. He isn’t focusing on the tourists, the Parisians doing their Christmas shopping or the street performers gathering small crowds around them. That, until his eyes fall on a rather peculiar sight.

It’s a carton sign painted in festive colors with the words FREE HUGS on it. The first thing his eyes can focus on from the distance is fingers wrapped around it, fingers which are most definitely frozen in those black fingerless gloves. Then he sees the green beanie, the black curls and the scruff, the old khaki parka. A middle aged woman throws her arms around him and they embrace like two good old friends who haven’t seen each other for so long.

It’s Grantaire.

*

People often take him for homeless. In his ratty old clothes and scruffy boots, his hands dry and red, almost bleeding from the piercing cold, drunk and looking like he hasn’t slept for weeks when in reality he sleeps until the most unorthodox hours of noon. He doesn’t blame them. In all honesty, he doesn’t give a flying fuck.

He has done it a few time in the past. He had laughed sarcastically when Jehan first dragged him to it, but now he isn’t hiding from his two or three closest friends that he goes and does it on his own, just for the fuck of it.

Like most things, he sees it with muted emotions, almost numb towards everyone who frowns upon him or walks past him busily, not shooting him a second glance. He has been used to working men and women in their suits and pencil skirts, to tourists in a rush to see all the monuments and to the elderly people’s disapproving glances and tutting of their tongue. He has learnt to expect the bitten lips of secret hesitance, the hidden desire of mature adults for a simple hug. But then again there are the hugs that he manages to give and, even though he hates to admit it, not all of them leave him untouched. He has grown to tell the difference between every type of hugs, the hesitant, the awkward, the comfort hugs, the needy and bone-breaking ones. Hugs that smell of flowers and baked goodies, of sweat and work and weariness, of family and love, of uncertainty and fear, of sadness and loneliness.

Very few people have tried to hit on him via the hugs. He knows that he can hardly considered to be anywhere near attractive. Sometimes he’s just surprised that his ratty appearance doesn’t repel people, but apparently there always are the old ladies who throw their plump or bony arms around his waists, deaging for twenty years with their bright smiles, smelling of wool and cookies and attics and dances in the Provence of another era. He can’t deny the comfort and warmth that those hugs always fill him with. There are also the tourists and the businessmen or women, pressed lips and tensed jaws, smelling of expensive colognes and anxiety, afraid to be seen doing that. The best that can happen to him and the last thing he’ll fear to admit that touches him is the children, when their parents allow them to run and throw their chubby arms around his knees, giving toothless, fearless, innocent smiles.

And then there is the man in his wheelchair and the smile that appears on his face and renders him in need for alcohol, and the numerous homeless with the long beards that scratch his skin, some shivering and some numb, immune to the cold after all those years of suffering, people who seem to bear more wisdom inside them than most of the other men who walk past through them.

He’s fondly hugging a beaming Asian tourist when he sees him, standing tall and gorgeous at the other side of the pavement, looking glorious in the fiery red coat, his halo of golden hair surrounding his pale face and rosy cheeks, his lips red with cold, his eyes fixed on him. He wants to curse things which would make every adorable old lady wince and hit him with their purses and he wonders of ways to escape, maybe the pavement can explode below his feet and suck him in, or he can find his useless self gifted with the sudden ability to fly.

He doesn’t know why the fuck he’s doing it, maybe he’s drawn by the light the man seems to be radiating, but he’s walking towards him, his sign lowered, and he regrets his decision only when it’s too fuckin’ late.

“Grantaire?”

“Oh what a pleasant surprise! Did the mighty Apollo finally decide to leave his noble palace and walk amongst us mortals?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “If you wish to call an apartment frequently visited by Courfeyrac in an apron which says _Kiss the cook,_ mount Olympus then you’re free to do so.” Oh he’s trying to be funny. Grantaire raises an eyebrow. That’s adorable. _He’s_ adorable. All pale and blond and dressed in red like the fuckin’ Nutcracker or something of that sort, his nose red and a black beret covering half of his disheveled locks, a scarf neatly tied around his smooth neck (he can almost picture Combeferre being behind this). Grantaire suddenly feels ashamed to be talking to him with a ridiculous FREE HUGS sign in his hand, dressed in the oldest, rattiest clothes he owns, his jacket two sized too big, his beanie badly knitted (not that he’d ever feel ashamed for it, it’s knitted by Jehan and he’ll be proud of it no matter what), unshaved and with dark circles under his eyes. He wishes he could disappear somewhere, he wishes he could grow smaller and smaller…

“They dragged me out for Christmas shopping.” He looks pathetic and Grantaire has to fight hard the urge to burst into laughter. He clearly can’t imagine their fearless leader casually doing his shopping at the Champs Elysees without a huge rant on capitalism following. “Your jacket looks so thin,” Enjolras mutters and Grantaire realizes that his heart is trying to hammer its way out of his chest: Enjolras is staring at him. “Aren’t you freezing?”

“What do you think?” he asks sarcastically, hardly feeling his frozen fingers anymore.

Enjolras stays silent for a while and Grantaire feels extremely ridiculous for not coming up with anything to say. He’s way too sober for this. They’ve never been tête-à-tête like that, just the two of them in the middle of the festive streets of Paris with people walking quickly around them.

“You need to go somewhere warm,” murmurs Enjolras.

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “I’m not dying, Apollo. I like the cold. I have nowhere better to be.”

Another silence falls, and then Enjolras clears his throat. “I was going to grab a coffee. Care to join me?”

Grantaire thinks his knees will deceive him and he’ll probably end up on the pavement, making dying whale noises or choking in his own shock. Instead he hears himself croaking: “I have no money for coffee,” and he regrets it at the very same moment, feeling more pathetic than ever before in his life.

“Don’t worry, I can buy you one. You really look like you need it.”

It’s only then that, despite his humiliation, he realizes that Enjolras is _actually asking him out for a coffee._ “I’ll repay you,” he quickly blurts out, “maybe I can repay you with a hug. That’s what I do anyway.”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows and the burning feeling of shame grows, making him wish he could become invisible and disappear forever. Why the hell did he consider, even for a moment, the possibility that Enjolras would like to _hug_ him?

“Right,” he rushes to say, “of course. How stupid of me.” He takes a deep breath, trying not to show like he’s about to bloody puke on Enjolras’ leather boots. “I know a nice little coffee shop five minutes from here.”

Enjolras nods. “You lead the way.”

Grantaire is sure he must have done a mistake with his experimentations with Jehan the previous night. He _must_ be fuckin’ high.

*

They find themselves walking in a considerably quieter street with little cafés and brasseries, their hands in their pockets. Grantaire’s blue eyes are fixed on the pavement while Enjolras is looking straight ahead. A few sneaky glimpses are enough for him to be able to see the frozen clouds that Grantaire exhales with every breath. They exchange very few words and maybe it’s for the better because the dark-haired man’s voice has once again a mocking tone, and he doesn’t feel very patient himself. Suddenly he feels guilty, ashamed, not really knowing why. It’s not his bloody fault that Grantaire’s gloves are fingerless, or that he’s losing his time hugging random people, or that he chose to wear such a thin jacket. He just finds himself noticing for the first time a hint of melancholy in his blue, sarcastic expression, something he somehow wants to fix but doesn’t really know the way.

Grantaire stops outside a small café at the end of the street and only after they enter, causing the bell on the door to jingle and they’re surrounded by the chattering of the customers, the overwhelming warmth and the scents of coffee and peppermint do they realize how really cold their faces feel.

Christmas pop hits are playing from the speakers but it isn’t really bad. Somehow it creates a relaxed, cozy atmosphere he doesn’t remember experiencing for ages. He still doesn’t know what got him and how he ended up in a café with Grantaire of all people, the last member of their group he’d choose to hang out with on his day of break.

They’re taking some time to suck in the warmth and the pleasant scents and to unzip their jackets and takes off their gloves, feeling the sudden change of temperature steadily make their palms pleasantly sweaty. Enjolras unwraps the woolen scarf from around his neck and takes off his beret, positively sure that his hair will be incredibly messy. Grantaire’s is at least, when he takes off the green beanie and shakes his head around like a dog. Black, wild locks surrounding his flushed face and looking even more untamed than his own hair usually does.

“Man, let me tell you that. I _really_ needed this coffee!” the brunet mutters contentedly, sinking in the comfortable leather armchair.

Enjolras ignores this exclamation because it somehow makes him feel uncomfortable, and makes an effort for conversation which surely would make Combeferre proud. “So,” he says, “free hugs. Is that what you do?”

Grantaire shrugs his shoulders, playing with the little snowman sugar bowl which is on the coffee table. Enjolras notices his fingers. His nails are short, probably bitten, his skin raw and irritated from the clock, his tips callused and raw. “There’s nothing better to do when I don’t have classes. There’s nothing better to do when I _do_ have classes either.”

“Why don’t you try to fill your day with something more useful?” Enjolras asks disapprovingly, tangling his fingers together.

Grantaire chuckles bitterly. “Like what? It’s not so easy to find a job even though believe me, I do need one.”

“It’s not that there isn’t anything for you to do,” Enjolras raises an eyebrow, “you _are_ a member of an activist group, after all, or did that slip your mind?”

Grantaire snorts and waves his hand dismissively. “Activism is boring!” he teases.

The blonde frowns slightly. “So what you did today, pointless as it was? Still, wasn’t it activism?”

Grantaire raises his blue eyes, looking incredulous. “Of course it wasn’t! That was making a few people happy!”

“Well, it technically _is_ activism though far from our cause! I hardly think that hugging a homeless man will fill his stomach and shelter him from the cold and the rain. There are so many useful things you could do!”

Grantaire stays silent for a while, then chuckles softly before lowering his eyes and starting to play with a thread from his hoodie. A waitress comes to ask what they’re getting and Grantaire seems slightly relieved, or so Enjolras thinks. When she leaves, however, the brunet smiles a grin that doesn’t really reach his eyes. “You know, you wouldn’t be so sure about that if you saw them. The smiles on their faces is something you don’t easily forget. You care so much for the people, Apollo,” he murmurs, “yet it seems to me that you think of them as masses. Maybe you should turn your pretty eyes to individuals as well, wonder how they’re feeling today, if everything’s alright at home, if their childhood was good, if they’re in love or if they’re anxious about losing weight.”

Enjolras feels unpleasantly confused at such an accusation. _Of course_ he cares for every individual, much more than Grantaire who really does nothing to help _any_ of them! He opens his mouth to respond but the waitress arrives with their coffees. The mugs are steamy and smell wonderfully, and for a while they don’t speak, just focus on the full, rich flavor that fills their senses and warms them to the bone.

Under different circumstances, they’d both be more than eager to continue the conversation and in rather heated tones, yet something is so soothing about that moment, Enjolras can feel the tension of the past week slowly dissolving and he sinks deeper in the soft armchair, eyeing the customers around the small shop, the smiles on their faces and the festive gift bags near their seats. Suddenly he doesn’t wish to argue anymore, he’s tired yet not exactly fed up. It’s a nice sort of tired, the ones that he usually spends chatting idly with Combeferre in the living room while sharing a good book. He doesn’t know why or how, he just knows he’ll regret it, but he asks anyway: “You draw, don’t you?”

Grantaire suddenly seems embarrassed. He normally does not bother to hide his numerous adventures –real or not- of any kind. On the contrary, he is loud and drunk and obnoxious, and gives details of the girls he fucks to Joly and Bossuet during the meetings, pissing him off to no end. But right now it looks as if he doesn’t really want to speak for his art, like it isn’t something he’d be willing to share, let alone boast about. He shrugs his shoulders, lowering his glance. “I guess we all need something to keep us sane, don’t we? Look at you, you probably jerk off to fragments of the _Social Contract_. Why are you asking?” mocking hope flickers in his blue eyes. “Will you let me draw you like one of my French girls?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes but manages to calm himself soon enough. “I was just wondering… I mean I know I’ll probably regret it, since I’ve assigned you tasks in the past and was left disappointed, but we need someone to make some sketches for our pamphlets and posters.”

Grantaire raises his wide open eyes, looking startled. “May I repeat your own words, your mightiness? You know you’ll probably regret it, right?”

Enjolras expects himself to remain serious, but a hint of a smile appears on his face. “I know that,” he simply says. “Will you see if you can do it?”

“Why not Feuilly? He’s so much better…”

Enjolras’ expression becomes teasing. “You can just say no, you know.”

And he does. “No,” he rushes to add, “I’ll do it.” His voice is but a mumble.

The leader feels his face lighting up. “Thank you.”

Simple as that. And the cynical Grantaire is smiling, his eyes shifting on the TV screen at the corner of the shop where a middle aged decadent rock star is singing with numerous half-naked Santa helpers dancing around him. “Ridiculous song, isn’t it?” he asks before taking a sip from his coffee.

Enjolras nods even though he’s hardly heard it before. “Ridiculous.”

“ _Christmas is all around._ That dude used to be a _good_ singer!” he exclaims incredulously. “I guess we all do sell ourselves short at some point. I’m sick of people around me obsessing with Christmas!”

Enjolras might not agree with the rest of Grantaire’s words, but the man’s expression catches his attention and he can relate to the last ones. “You’re not really into Christmas spirit are you?”

Grantaire raises his blue eyes slowly from this mug and offers a small, enigmatic smile. “I don’t believe in it.” Before Enjolras is able to reply, Grantaire is placing his mug on the wooden table, licking some coffee from his dry lips. “Thank you for the coffee,” he smiles, “if I get a job soon I’ll pay you back. Until then, I do still owe you a hug.”

Enjolras has to admit that this has been a strange day. Very strange indeed.

*

Courfeyrac knows the florist where Jehan helps for some extra cash when he doesn’t have classes. He has dropped him off with the car a few times when it was raining. He is fairly excited when he escapes his friends and grabs some donuts on his way, thinking of how much _he_ adores surprises.

The little shop looks crowded from the first minute. It’s only natural, he supposes at such festive days. He wonders what a beautiful job this must be for Jehan, to be surrounded by all those beautiful scents and colors, to be helping people in love, people in despair, families and children wanting to surprise their mothers, old men married for dozens of years and always in love with their other half, people full with guilt and the need to apologize. Jehan loves to help. Then again, Courfeyrac remembers of the ways the man wishes to stay alone sometimes and keeps a distance in their apartment, and he wonders if maybe such a job isn’t so easy after all.

He can spot the poet behind a few customers, helping some flushed, dorky guy with a remarkable resemblance to Pontmercy, with a smile of genuine kindness on his face. He doesn’t interrupt him, he just pretends to be browsing through lilies and orchids and cyclamens, unable to really tell which is which, just admiring the colors.

Eventually Jehan spots him, their eyes meet across the shop and Courfeyrac beams. The man looks slightly tired but an excited smile appears on his face, a smile which Courfeyrac will probably never be used to. He waves his hand and Courfeyrac walks towards him, shifting through the small crowd of people browsing.

“What are you doing here?” he exclaims while pulling him in a warm hug that smells of gardenias and ink. He surely looks pleased to see him and all of Courfeyrac’s doubts dissolve into thin air. “Can I help you? Are you searching for flowers?”

The brunet raises an eyebrow. “Do I need an excuse to visit my flatmate during a hard day of labor?”

Jehan snorts. “Hardly, though it was a great idea of yours! Thank you!” the smiles has not left his face yet and Courfeyrac thinks that maybe he’s dreaming. “In all honesty I could use some company! It has been a hectic day and it sort of becomes a routine in those days, no matter how much you may love it. Did you have classes?”

Courfeyrac shakes his head. “We went shopping,” he chuckles. “I dropped Ferre to a bookshop which means he’s not looking for me.”

The other’s eyes open widely. “Shit, don’t tell me you dragged _Enjolras_ to the shops!”

“Uh huh!” Courfeyrac casually examines his fingernails, looking proud of himself.

“Photos or didn’t happen!”

“I don’t have any photographic evidence of a heavily disturbed Enjy browsing through ridiculously expensive lingerie, I’m afraid, but I _do_ come bearing presents!” A paper bag appears behind his back and Jehan smiles widely.

“Tell me that it’s food, please tell me that it’s food! I’m fuckin’ _starving_!” he hisses in order to not be heard by the customers, literally grabbing the bag from his hands. Courfeyrac smiles proudly over the sprinkled donuts covered in chocolate and strawberry icing and Jehan almost screams. “I was just about to ask who I should screw for some chocolate!” he says in a strangled, excited voice and Courfeyrac can’t hold back a wide grin. “You are a god among men, you wonderful human being you!”

A lady searching for those _red Christmas flowers_ interrupts them and Jehan makes a face behind her back when he has to abandon the precious donuts on the counter and help her. Courfeyrac chuckles and waits patiently near the vases with the carnations until the lady pays and Jehan returns.

“So,” the dark-haired boy asks with a hint of hope in his voice. “Can I stay for a while? I mean, you are obliged to share some of the donuts and I know I’ll probably have to fight for my share…”

“I finish in half an hour,” hums Jehan, tying a ribbon around a bouquet. “If you can wait until then we can hang out before we get home… Unless we need to go save Enjolras from the terrifying lair of capitalism.”

Courfeyrac’s face lights up. “In fact, my dear Prouvaire, I know just the place where we should go.”

*

He doesn’t have the faintest idea of how they ended up on the ice skating rink of Santa’s Village in Avenue des Champs Elysees. All he knows is that he isn’t so hungry anymore and that he hasn’t felt so free and happy in ages, stuck inside or in the shop he’s been working, not having paid much attention to Christmas in Paris which he normally adores.

Ice skating comes so natural to him, natural as dancing. Courfeyrac seems eager to prove he is a keen skater when he can hardly stand up without holding on the rink, but he really is adorable so Jehan most definitely does not mind. They’re wrapped in various layers of wool –he feels really proud of the colorful hat he’s knitted himself and he considers making something for Courfeyrac as well, to thank him for everything- and they rather enjoy the cold that seems to clear up their minds.

“Show me, or else I’ll probably end up slitting someone’s throat with those blades,” whispers Courfeyrac, looking rather frustrated and Jehan can’t help but giggle. He slowly starts leading him, skating backwards and Courfeyrac’s hands relax into his own, a smile appearing on his slightly tensed face. “I haven’t done this in ages,” he rushes to excuse himself and Jehan takes his gloved hands in his own. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs as they swirl around and around, between couples and teenagers, “you’re getting at it!”

Courfeyrac is staring at his bladed feet at first, but then he raises his green eyes and they meet with Jehan’s who can feel his heart pounding in his chest once again, like all the times during the previous week of – _who’d have told him?-_ sharing an apartment. He knows this needs to stop. He _has_ to stop it. He’s had his heart broken once, twice. He’s bored of feeling more and more naïve every time, stupid even though he most clearly is not. He doesn’t know how he’s allowing himself, why he can’t control his racing pulse. This is _Courfeyrac,_ for heaven’s sake. Courfeyrac, who brings a different girl or guy every evening at the Musain. Courfeyrac, who sleeps away most of the nights because apparently he’s tactful enough to not have loud, kinky sex when he’s sleeping in the next room. He can’t allow his pulse to keep picking up every time they sit next to each other on the couch to watch a movie and their sides are touching, radiating warmth, or when Courfeyrac is sleepy and disheveled with pillow marks and his leopard underwear in the kitchen, making him coffee.

But on the next moment they’ve somehow managed to slip and he feels the cold ice through his clothes, and Courfeyrac has landed on him and he can sense his cold breath brushing on his face. Jehan’s heart is trying to hammer its way out of his chest and probably fill Courfeyrac’s chic navy coat with disgusting guts and blood and he immediately knows that for once again, this is doomed.

*

It’s not that Combeferre doesn’t love his friends to bits, of course he does. It’s just that sometimes he feels like a parent who is guiltily relieved to be alone just for a while. It’s just that browsing through books is not always easy with Courfeyrac’s bored moans and Enjolras’ occasional rants about some book which is not the way it should be or about the prices.

Right now, Combeferre is in heaven. Nobody to care where he is or what he’s doing, nobody to interrupt him, just him and hundreds of books to that lovely bookshop where he’s returned. He allows the scent of old pages and ink to fill his nostrils and smiles contentedly over a pile of philosophy and history books which, um, are not all supposed to be presents for his friends.

It’s true that he isn’t expecting to see Éponine Thénardier wrapped only in a leather jacket, wearing a pair of red plaid pants and some scruffy army boots to browse through the racks, her pierced lips flushed and chapping from the cold and her hands shoved into her huge pockets. “Hey,” he says, approaching her with half a dozen books wrapped protectively in his arms.

She almost jumps up at the sound of his voice, in the way she usually does, as if she’s always caught on the act of doing something she shouldn’t. “Oh hi, hey,” she says hoarsely, turning to face him. “Of course you’d be here, where else?”

He raises his shoulders apologetically with a small smile, remembering he’s holding the books on the last second and just managing not to drop them. “What can I do? Books are my weakness?”

“Yeah, I’ve kinda figured it out,” she says blankly.

“Are you looking for something?” he asks with vivid interest. “I can help you if you’d like.”

“No,” she shakes her head with the messy bun of dark hair on top of it, “I don’t really… read. You know, I mean of course I _can_ read and I _like_ to read but I never have enough time… My work schedule is rather unorthodox and I have Gavroche.”

Combeferre nods. “I see. That’s a pity, you should save some time for yourself.”

The look she shoots him is almost sarcastic. “Right, okay, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Suddenly the whole thing feels so awkward that Combeferre almost regrets talking to her in first place, and curses his social skills. “Um… I should be going,” he points with his eyes at the books in his arms. “Presents,” he hurries to add.

Éponine nods. “Good to see you.”

“Good to see you too!” He turns around, and it’s only after a few seconds that his pulse has picked up when he hears his voice. “Combeferre?”

He stops and turns around, unable to hold back a small grin. “Yes, Éponine?”

“In fact you could help me, you know,” she says quickly, almost messing her words, “if that’s not trouble I mean. I’m searching for presents for the others too, and maybe something for Gav, I know some reading would do him good but he won’t read anything but the Harry Potter books which he’s read at least eleven times each and I adore Harry Potter but you know, maybe something new?” she’s almost breathless when she’s finished and Combeferre feels the beginning of something warm spreading in his chest.

“Of course! Dickens had always been my favorite for Christmas but I was a slightly miserable nerdy antisocial kid with glasses and microscope kits, not to mention the repeated crossdressing experiences –not that crossdressing is bad at all, don’t get me wrong, but I’m sure that your brother is much cooler than I was.”

Éponine is staring at him incredulously. “Crossdressing? You?”

“Yeah, I mean with three younger sisters it’s always part of the game to be dressed as a princess for tea parties, with makeup and tiaras and all…”

Éponine’s eyes are now widely open with mischief and amusement. “I can’t believe it…” she says slowly, focusing on every word. “ _Tiaras_?”

Combeferre mentally curses himself several times. Great. Excellent idea. Why not mention the glittery lipstick then, won’t you? “Of course that was only once…”

“Tell me there are pictures! Please!” she’s pleading like a child, bouncing slightly up and down and it’s particularly amusing and warming a feeling to see her like that. “I _need_ these fuckin’ pictures!”

“All photographic evidence has been destroyed, I’m afraid,” he lies obviously, clearing his throat.

Éponine continues laughing as they browse through the action and fantasy sections to find a gift for Gavroche, and Combeferre realizes that eventually this sound might be more important in his life than he'd thought in the past.


	4. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You really are a terrible dancer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter where everything's silly and cute because that's what I felt like writing.

When Enjolras enters the apartment, Combeferre has already returned. His gloves and scarf are on the coffee table and his shoes are drying outside, sign he’s already in his slippers. Enjolras’ assumption is immediately confirmed when his best friend appears in the living room, holding a mug of hot cocoa in his hand and a book in the other. “Hello,” he smiles, “how was your day?”

Enjolras takes a seat on the sofa, pulling his leather boots off his sore feet and stretching his legs over the pillows, after taking off his coat. “Good,” he mutters and remains silent for a good while. “I met Grantaire,” he says eventually.

“Oh,” Combeferre looks interested, “did you talk?” It’s obvious that he’s afraid to hear of another epic argument yet he isn’t as startled as Enjolras expected him when he says: “We went for a coffee.”

His bespectacled friend nods casually. “That’s good. I’m glad you had a nice day!”

“He was giving hugs to people.” suddenly Enjolras finds himself in need to share everything with his friend, “he said it makes them happy.”

“Sounds normal to me. Hugs make people happy.”

Enjolras takes half a minute to let such a statement spoken so seriously from Combeferre sink in, and then continues. “It’s just…” he takes a deep breath, “he looked like he cared. I mean, I know that he has nothing better to do, but he didn’t look… you know, like he doesn’t give a fuck, like usually. He was sober.”

Combeferre places his book on the table and takes the hot mug in his hands, bringing it to his lips. There is a pause before he speaks. “Enjolras,” his voice is smooth and gentle like always, “You may not get along so well, but Grantaire is a good man. He does care.” Enjolras raises his eyes and their glances meet. “And I know you do too.”

The blonde finds the last words of his friend rather confusing but he’s not willing to ask for an explanation, all he knows is that he feels his cheeks burn with shame and guilt. “He didn’t have money to pay for coffee.”

“It’s not very easy for him,” mutters Combeferre carefully.

“He needs a job.” He can feel Combeferre’s glance piercing through him but he doesn’t know what the man is thinking. He knows he’s said too much but he can’t stop himself. “I want to help him.”

Combeferre stares at him, smiling slightly. “That is a very good idea! You have more connections than he does. You should do that.” Enjolras feels encouraged. He gets up and unwraps his scarf from around his neck, making his way to his room.

Combeferre’s voice stops him halfway. “Enjolras?”

“Yes, Combeferre?” he turns to face him.

“I trust you. Be careful.”

*

Writing is his shelter and his balsam, a world in which he is able to escape forever, the wings that Jolllly would be jealous of, that enable him to fly away from everything dark and dull. It is fervent and wild, when it happens, the lovemaking of his slow fingers with the keys and the fervent battle of his pen against the familiar skin of the paper. He loves every minute of it. The smell of the ink that paints his freckled nose and chin without him noticing, the touch of the paper beneath his fingers, smooth sometimes and rough some others, raw and natural and _real,_ a world bursting in life from his own very mind, yet he never feels powerful, not a god, only a magician, wicked and quirky and he grows to come in terms with himself when he achieves that.

Then, there are the times when he can’t, his mind seems to go blank, his fingers fail to cooperate, his head throbs with a whirlpool of thoughts that he can’t put in order, it gets fuzzy and blurry and he needs a drink, he needs a smoke, _something_ to cling upon because he can’t make it, he is useless and he’s alone, even when surrounded by so many people. Grantaire and he have been through this for so long, holding onto each other desperately, together with Éponine. He has seen Grantaire going through this, feeling suffocated, smothered by the walls around him. It isn’t exactly like that for him. For him it’s numb, dark, fuzzy, muted. It’s like the world stops spinning when all he wants is to stop time for a while, to stop the clock, to take a break which no one is willing to grant him with.

Courfeyrac doesn’t seem to expect it. Courfeyrac cares for his friends, he always has. Courfeyrac notices everything about the young poet through the meetings and their nights out with the others. He can see the dark gleam of sadness which shadows his warm eyes sometimes, he can see the color that seems to drown from his pretty face and leaves him pale, quite in the shade of his usual self. Courfeyrac knows, yet he hasn’t expected it when they first moved in together. He finds him smoking in the balcony, curled up on his bed, staring at the ceiling as if he’s seeing something he cannot. He hasn’t expected it to be so wild, so naked yet so covered at the same time. He needs to help yet Jehan is distant, he yearns to hold him in his arm and stroke his beautiful long hair, plant kisses on his forehead yet Jehan is grieving, not his lost relationship but his migrated inspiration, which returned in the past but he doesn’t know whether it ever will again, every time going through a writer’s block is agony, a sudden loss of an identity which may forever forget him.

“Are you writing a book?” Courfeyrac asks someday softly, joining him on the couch and pulling his ankles under his body.

Jehan can feel a burning flush spreading all over his cheeks and he realizes how ridiculous he seems, how pathetic and childish and cliché. “Well”, he mutters hoarsely, “sort of. I mean…” a sigh. “Don’t make me talk about it. I feel ridiculous.”

Courfeyrac looks baffled and that makes Jehan to feel even worse. “How can this feel ridiculous? Something as beautiful as this? A gift?”

Jehan snorts. “It isn’t as it seems.”

“It is as I read it.”

Jehan looks panicked. “You’ve read? When I wasn’t here?”

Courfeyrac rushes to wave his hands. “Of course not. Only the speeches you’ve written for the group! I’m a jerk, a particularly charming one at that, but I’d never invade in your privacy! I mean, of course I’d occasionally read Enj’s diary at high school…”

“You’ve. _Read._ Enjolras’ _diary_?”

“The question should be _did Enjolras have a diary_? Well, technically a journal but still…”

Jehan lets a muffled snicker. “I can imagine, for some very peculiar reason! It was all about sex, wasn’t it?”

A nod. “How the government fucks him every day.”

They end up rolling on the couch with laughter, a bottle of wine between them. Somehow Courfeyrac’s arms are around the poet’s neck, their bodies distanced but their foreheads entwined and the poet can feel the warm breath of life and cheer through his friend’s parted lips and it’s comforting, it makes it worth to try even though he knows that in retrospect he’ll regret it. Courfeyrac is a flirt and while it won’t be his fault, Jehan will hold his smashed heart afterwards, cursing everything and nothing because it’ll be his own fault, he can hear it in the way his heart is pounding while the brunet holds him in his arms as if he wants to protect him from everything bad in the world. Jehan doesn’t dare to verbalize what he’s feeling. He has usually embraced his sentiments, even if they were those of grief or fear. He loved examining himself, every breath he drew, every dream and every nightmare that haunted his sleep. He never denied any harsh feeling, yet it’s the bliss he’s now afraid of. He needs Courfeyrac more than he’d ever thought he would, he wants to write the world for him and to write him for the world, to keep him alive into the pages of his notebook and feel the man’s pulse, full of life beneath his fingers, pounding against every papercut and every ink smudge.

He can’t speak. He can’t talk about it, not to Grantaire or Éponine, not to Feuilly, not to himself. It’s too terrifying to realize. Courfeyrac is only kind, Courfeyrac is only showing him affection and closeness because that’s what Courfeyrac does, radiating warmth to everyone he loves.

Loves.

_Not in the way you do._

Just a friend. He only cares for him. He doesn’t want to see him miserable and wasted. He cares for his flatmate, that is all.

Courfeyrac cares for his knitting and he exclaims whole-heartedly that it’s the best thing he’s ever seen, his talent and his work, even though most of the hats and fingerless gloves he seems to be making for Christmas presents for his friends are uneven and bright as fuck. He dreamily says he’d kill for an extension in his wardrobe containing some of those rad pieces. Jehan knows he’s being kind. Courfeyrac is an artist and he knows it, he has a massive talent in photography, capturing all the beautiful moments of them all and keeping them in his bedroom just across his bed, his friends who are his life. Courfeyrac _is_ talented in life.

Courfeyrac cooks for him, humming some horrid catchy pop tune. Courfeyrac gets him out of his room by force and has him to try on the most ridiculous clothes they both own. Courfeyrac photographs him. Courfeyrac tells him he’s beautiful but _oh,_ so casually. Courfeyrac walks out of the bathroom with his hair dripping wet and his skin damp and a towel around his neck, completely unaware of the fact that he could own the world and the poet’s heart pounds madly in his chest because Courfeyrac cares for him and that hurts the most.

Courfeyrac cares for his flatmate.

And then one night he’s well, Jehan is well, he feels ready to write. Maybe it is that he’s just returned from a busy yet happy day at the florist’s. Maybe it is the Christmas lights all around the city, in every shop and street. Maybe it is the smell apple and cinnamon tea he brews in his snowman mug and the warmth of the huge green sweater with the sleeves that hide his bony wrists. And it most definitely is about the carols he puts on the radio, but before he is even able to take a second sip from his tea and retreat to his typing machine, Courfeyrac appears in a blue hoodie and pajama pants and wraps his arms around his waist, dragging him to the middle of the living room almost with the same grace Grantaire’s movements have and they start swirling around, smiling blissfully. He doesn’t even have the time to realize what is happening because Courfeyrac feels so warm and he smells of Bleu de Chanel and flowery clothes softener and peppermint and _Courfeyrac_ and it’s only unfair because Jehan tries not to breathe in because he’ll probably stop being coherent but it’s too late because they’re dancing and it’s so fuckin’ cliché that he can’t take it anymore.

He knows it’s a dream and it smells of peppermint and cinnamon, but he can’t afford to ever wake up.

*

Baby shopping is bloody tough business. Bossuet is perfectly capable of assuring you on the matter.

Babies are bald. Believe him, he knows how it is to be bald. You should be fuckin’ proud about it, not buy those little fleece beanies. Joly says they will keep the babies warm. Musichetta wants to eat. A lobster. In a fuckin’ shopping mall. Then blueberries. And pumpkin pie. And then she wants to buy a coloring kit which is creative, don’t get me wrong but the babies might have to learn how to gurgle and bite knuckles and put things in their mouths first, right? And Joly is double checking all the labels on the footsies ‘just to be on the safe side’ and searches for organic wool and then searches more until Musichetta is chasing them both with a pram which is okay, it really is until Bossuet trips over the whole stash of maternity bras ending up with them hanging from various parts of his body and Joly has to check he hasn’t earned a concussion or something before he joins Bahorel in laughing uncontrollably because that’s what Joly does, he laughs.

Oh, and Bahorel. Why exactly did they take _Bahorel_ baby shopping in first place?

Oh yeah, that’s right. To pick the Santa elves pajamas. And the Thor and Loki ones. And to laugh at Feuilly. _Forever._

Because it turns out that Feuilly’s new job is the Santa at the mall. Clueless baffled kids sit on his knee and he goes all _ho ho ho_ while Bahorel is literally rolling on the floor laughing, and the kids don’t exactly get why the white haired Santa Claus seems to have turned ginger all over his face.

Joly is almost wheezing from the laughter and it’s a pity because Feuilly is so ridiculous and they’re having so much fun and it would only be a shame for Joly’s asthma to remember him especially when they’re having so much fun and a little girl is pulling…

Fuck.

A little girl is pulling Feuilly’s white beard.

This isn’t going to end well.

*

They have a tradition. Every year they all gather in someone’s apartment and decorate it all together. Not all of them will admit it but no matter how each of them loves Christmas or not, they all look forward to that gathering every time. This year it’s Courfeyrac and Jehan’s since they’ve just moved in, and both of them look really excited.

Jehan apparently can bake and he does it really wonderfully and Courfeyrac is the one who takes care of the drinks –and yes, hot chocolate with whiskey and a shitload of marshmallows _does_ count as a drink. So does butterbeer.

The tradition says that everyone brings spare decorations from their places to contribute to what the household already has and that consists in the making of the most clashing, ridiculous decoration with no pattern or general coordination at all. The thing is that nobody has ever loved the concept more than Jehan and Courfeyrac do. Jehan has never tried to coordinate anything in his life. His mentality has always been to choose whatever seems pretty to him at that specific moment and smother the life out of it with love. From the way he dresses (Bahorel’s red leather pants, leopard socks, a witch’s hat and the ugliest Christmas sweater with gingerbread men and ugly kittens and actual pom pom snowflakes) to the things he eats (all of the pastries together and then fish and some Chinese leftovers just because he just feels like it), Jehan doesn’t care for any norms but his very own standards for beauty. Courfeyrac adores the concept as well, as Courfeyrac loves a) color and vividness and b) everything his friends do –apart from the painful horror which is their fashion choices that make him want to cry most of the time.

It’s lovely, it really is. They’re all working together, swirling wrapped in garlands and light bulbs –at least when poor Joly isn’t staring to accuse them for giving him heart palpitations by electrocuting themselves- to the sound of all the classic Christmas tunes. Courfeyrac’s new apartment apparently has a fireplace which Combeferre and Feuilly manage to light, and now the fire is crackling cheerfully, filling the room with blissful warmth. Cosette is serving desserts all around, eggnog cake and tree shaped cookies and pavlovas and handmade chocolate cauldrons, in the most adorable red tartan skirt which is making poor Marius stumble on boxes and on that hideous life size elf Jehan has brought and keeps scaring the shit out of Enjolras. Courfeyrac in his navy shagging reindeers jumper is spending his time following them and snapping pictures while making high pitched noises, trying to make a pretty baffled Marius eat a candy cane seductively. In fact he’s capturing _everyone_ with his camera and it’s beautiful, so beautiful, Musichetta literally glowing in her golden jumper which is hugging a huge bump, grumpy Enjolras who turns out to be incredibly clumsy when it comes to decorating, ending up redder than his sweater and Combeferre in his light blue fair isle jumper, supervising them all and losing all his calmness to run away from the lens as he always does, exclaiming how _not_ photogenic he is in an unusually childish manner. Everyone’s beautiful and Bahorel is _hot,_ all bulky and tattooed and sassy in his Santa’s helper costume - _whose idea was that? Oh right, Courfeyrac’s-_ and Jehan is simply beautiful, adored by his camera, Jehan laughing with reindeer horns on his loose hair, Jehan laughing with green cupcake icing on the tip of his nose, Jehan laughing, wrapped in lit bulbs, Jehan _laughing._ That’s all he needs.

Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire are already drunk but neither of them, even usually bored Grantaire is willing to sit down and stop decorating. Joly can’t stop giggling hysterically at the festive condom ornaments Courfeyrac has found in the flea market and Grantaire with Bossuet soon follow his example, causing Enjolras to reconsider his choices in friends. That, until Bossuet falls from a ladder, then trips on some light bulbs and almost ends up in the fire –sending some glittery tulle ornaments to burn instead, much to Enjolras and Combeferre’s relief- and Joly starts slurring that no father of his children is allowed to die before their birth, and Musichetta has to glare at both of them in a way that immediately sobers them up. Grantaire has the chance to prove once again what a surprisingly steady, experienced drunk he is, dancing _once again_ first with Éponine, then with Jehan, Courfeyrac and Bahorel, waltzing around so deftly to the rhythm of _The most wonderful time of the year_ in his green F**K CHRISTMAS jumper and skinny black jeans, laughing in a way Enjolras hasn’t seen him laugh in ages and fuck him because for some absurd reason _he can’t stop staring._

Meanwhile, Enjolras is listening to Feuilly’s report about the homeless and he hates himself because right now he can’t concentrate as much as Combeferre is able to, and Feuilly has done such an excellent job –unsurprisingly- and Enjolras would hug him for all his efforts if he wasn’t actually so distracted, which most definitely is not his fault, considering all the noise and the laughter and the off-tune singing of _Let it snow_ when it’s not. Going. To bloody _snow_! And he can’t help but admire Feuilly and his inhuman perfection once again, because how can he _not_ be distracted? How can he explain everything to them in every detail _while_ making beautiful minute fan ornaments for the tree?

Jehan stops dancing ( _It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas)_ when Grantaire ends up doing the tango with Marius who keeps surprising them all with his dancing skills, and goes on in placing every ornament he finds (the zombie Nutcrackers and the pink skull ones are his favorites but he really can’t pick between the golden snitches, the reindeer minions and the sequined teenage mutant ninja turtles so instead he puts on all of them). Musichetta soon joins him to help him hang a red garland on the wall, her stomach so huge that it bumps against said wall, and she stubbornly denies sitting on the couch until he joins her, so they curl up with a lazy half-dressed Bahorel and a yawning Éponine, and Jehan smiles serenely with his ear pressed on Musichetta’s stomach as she cards her fingers through his hair, both of them feeling the babies kicking the shit out of their poor mother and it’s a _miracle,_ Jehan knows it is and after all this time, he can’t stop smiling until his cheeks ache. The fire is crackling, the room smells of wood and pine and cinnamon and peppermint, _Have yourself a merry little Christmas_ is playing and most of their friends are taking a break from decorating, ending up sprawled on the carpet and on the armchairs, and it’s all so peaceful until Éponine growls a blood-freezing “SHIT!” and jumps over the arm of the couch to burst into the kitchen. Apparently she’s tried to bake some cake which is now burnt and everyone’s pretending to be loving it while they eye each other in desperation and try to spit it in wrapping paper.

Only Combeferre seems to be honest with her. “Well, it _is_ burnt,” he mutters, matter-of-factly with a slightly amused smile on his peaceful face as they both share the last remaining armchair –she grumpily occupying all of it, her legs hanging over the arm on the corner of which he is resting for a while- causing her stomach to feel ridiculously empty and fluttering, which she absolutely hates.

“No shit, Sherlock,” she snorts.

“But it is good,” he adds genuinely, “I mean, it _had_ the potential to be great. Maybe we can try it again, I can remind you about it, because other than that you seem perfectly capable of making an amazing chocolate cake!”

“I’m worse than Bossuet,” she groans, hiding her face in the wool of her massive second hand beige turtleneck.

Combeferre chuckles softly, his glance travelling to Bossuet who is now curled in Musichetta’s arms getting the newly-earned bumps on his bald head kissed. “How does some hot chocolate sound to you?” he asks with a hint of mischief on his voice and he rolls her eyes.

“Courfeyrac won’t really appreciate me setting his kitchen on fire before he manages to eventually do it himself.”

He shakes his head. “Leave it to me, okay? I can pride myself on making rather good chocolate, it always helps Enjolras when he’s feeling stressed out.”

“Ugh, thanks!” she croaks, throwing her head back and causing her dark hair to produce a messy stream on the arm of the chair. “You are my savior.” No really, it should be illegal for someone to be so kind and calm and interesting when he looks so boring in first impression, and also to possess eyes so warm and brown, like chocolate themselves.

Combeferre can’t hide a smile. “Care to join me while I make chocolate for everyone?”

She considers the possibility of leaving the comfort of the chair for a while, then succumbs to the deep warmth of his voice and follows him in the kitchen, epically pissed off with herself and the mess she allows him to cause in her stupid head.

They are silent as he watches him work, methodical even in the way he boils the milk and whips the cream and places the red mugs on a serving disc. She’s awestruck when she sees a star designed with chocolate on the surface of her beverage. “How did you do that, you fuckin’ magician you?” she mutters, gaping.

He just chuckles, taking a sip of his own chocolate and granting himself with a cream mustache and _fuck, how dare he be so adorable, he’s Combeferre for God’s sake, the dude who goes around in grandpa slippers and sweater vests and reads about bloodletting in the 19 th century for pleasure! _“You learn these tricks when you grow up with three sisters!”

Éponine raises her eyes to look at him, feeling a pang of jealousy in her chest. It has never been so easy and glittery for her and Gavroche, not to mention the sister and brothers she never got to meet as they went for adoption. “You sound like you really love your family.”

“Of course I do!” his face lights up. “You should meet them. Only Enjolras and Courfeyrac have met my parents, they love them both! They’re very kind people, my father’s an oncologist and my mother a math teacher. She keeps asking me if I’ve met a nice girl,” he scrunches up his nose. “But other than that I really do miss them.”

“Don’t they live in Paris?”

He nods. “I grew up in the North and moved here after primary school, that’s when I met Enjolras and Courfeyrac. They live here but on holidays we all gather at my grandma’s at Calais.” He notices that she’s listening with a blank expression on her face, without having touched her chocolate. “Won’t you try?” he asks encouragingly.

She looks as if she’s just remembered the beverage in her hands and brings the mug on her lips. She immediately regrets taking so long because Combeferre’s chocolate is simply _heavenly,_ tasting of praline and faintly of chestnuts, creamy and soft and _perfect_ against her tongue and she can’t hold back an almost orgasmic moan. “This is wonderful, fuck you!” she says half teasingly half in surprise.

“Why, thank you!” he grins softly. The songs and the noise sounds distant from the living room and Courfeyrac and Jehan’s small kitchen suddenly seems too cozy and peaceful for them to go back. “And you? Are you and Gavroche visiting your parents on Christmas?”

She chuckles bitterly. “In jail? I don’t see why. They hardly miss us at all.”

Combeferre feels his heart stopping for an instant and Éponine can see him freezing in his position. “Shit,” he murmurs, “I didn’t know, I’m so sorry...”

“Don’t be,” she rushes to shake her head before taking another sip from her chocolate. “I should have let you all know long ago. We’re better off without them, anyway.”

Combeferre remains silent for a while. “You have to know that I think you do an excellent job with Gavroche, with everything really.”

It’s meant to sound good, it’s meant to make her feel better only she doesn’t feel bad, she doesn’t accept compliments, she can’t. She just snorts. “I know, man. Like last week when his teacher invited me to announce that he’s been caught stealing bacon from the school cafeteria. Sometimes I don’t even feed him properly!” Combeferre chuckles awkwardly. “By the way, you have cream on your lip,” is only she can bring herself to say after that.

Story of her life.

*

Almost everyone seems to be way too relaxed now. Even Grantaire has stopped dancing long ago and for some reason he ends up cross-legged on the carpet just opposite Enjolras –maybe because it’s the only place by the fire-, a contented, breathless smile on his face. Enjolras can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy, not because he wants to dance, heaven forbid no! Enjolras doesn’t dance, let alone with drunken, sarcastic people, far more talented at that than he can ever wish to be. It’s just that he can’t get his friends’ happy faces out of his mind, how delighted they looked while they danced even badly or clumsily, as if they’d forgotten all about their problems. He can’t help but notice that under no circumstances would Grantaire ever consider dancing with him, not that he’d accept even if the man offered, but still. Something tight knots in his stomach and he feels angry with himself.

“Having fun, are you?” smirks Grantaire at his direction, taking a sip from his butterbeer and placing a plate of what seems like newly roasted chestnuts between them. Someone had the ridiculous idea to turn off the lights and he can hardly read –or at least pretend to be reading- his newspaper anymore, and he can’t help but stare at the way the lights from the tree flicker reflect on the man’s dark wild locks, or at the way the fire illuminates on his face and flickers against his long legs and socked feet that are sprawled in front of him. “Combeferre just roasted those for us kids,” he points at the chestnuts. “And ‘Ponine managed to unpeel them without chopping a whole finger. I’m so proud of her!”

Enjolras takes half a chestnut in his fingers and brings it to his mouth. It tastes of nostalgia and smells like those evenings he spent with his grandmother. “I have some news,” he hears himself muttering, leaving his newspaper aside. “For you.”

Grantaire looks puzzled. “Do you? Did the Alcoholic Anonymous of France unleash their army to look for me? Have I been discovered?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes before clearing his throat. “I’ve spoken to my father. Believe me, that is more surprising than it sounds considering that we hardly even speak at all anymore. They want me to attend their ‘charity ball’ on Christmas Eve. I have to pretend to be the good prodigal son again and all that. I might or might not have blackmailed them. Only slightly.”

Grantaire takes another sip of his butterbeer and raises his blue eyes which are glowing in the firelight. “I still can’t see why your family life is any of my concern.”

“My _dear_ father has connections. He is able to find a friend a job,” he blurts out.

Grantaire remains silent for a while. “Do you mean that…”

“Are you interested?”

“A job…” Grantaire says the word slowly in order to properly realize what he’s hearing.

“Yes. You promised to help us with the pamphlets, so it only seems right, doesn’t it?”

_The pamphlets. Shit. Fuck. Shit. The fuckin’ pamphlets._

Grantaire freezes for what seems like ages before slowly placing his glass on the carpet near him. “Give me your hand,” he mutters, extending his own, his face covered in an unusual flush that might or might not be a trick of the firelight.

Enjolras stares at him disbelievingly. “R, have you been listening to a single word that I’m saying?”

“Yes,” Grantaire sounds impatient, almost tired, “give me your hand!”

“What… why?”

“I really am thankful but you most clearly don’t know how to dance, Enjolras. You need that shit to make a good impression at a pretentious charity gala, don’t you?”

Enjolras stares at Grantaire’s hand for a while, not exactly knowing what or why or _how._ “Really?” he raises his eyes, considering how helpful that really would be of the other man in order for him to not make a fool of himself in front of dozens of stuck up rich assholes –not that he cares of their opinion. Grantaire throws his eyes at the ceiling. “I mean, if it’s okay for a god with a candy cane shoved up his ass to dance Christmas songs,” he says in his annoying, sarcastic voice, and before he can stop himself, Enjolras has taken his hand and they’ve stood up.

“Are you serious?” asks Grantaire, his blue eyes wide open, as if he wasn’t the one to offer to teach him in first place, as if he was never expecting such a reply, not if hell would break loose. Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I’m always serious.” This is his chance. He can say no, he can prevent his talentless self from getting ridiculed in front of his friends, he can say he was joking, only Enjolras is hardly ever joking, and he can’t back off, he can’t look like a coward, not to mention that he _really needs to_ learn how to dance. “Before I change my mind?” he gestures to the middle of the room and after a moment of hesitance, they both make their ways.

Thankfully most of their friends are occupied otherwise. He doesn’t worry for Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta or for Marius and Cosette and, in all honest, he can only be thankful that he won’t have to stare at them and their current occupations right now. Bahorel in his disturbing costume is helping Feuilly with some crafts, as for Jehan and Courfeyrac, they’re nowhere to be seen. Grantaire’s hand is callused and raw and so very warm and Enjolras can’t really think properly about anything, because _Jingle Bell Rock_ suddenly finishes and is replaced by _White Christmas_ and this can only be bad because they can’t move their arms and legs incoherently without really following the rhythm like they used to do in Courfeyrac’s parties to ‘90s pop songs when they were kids. No, he knows that’s not the proper way to dance this song even with being the horrible dancer that he is and _holy fuck_ , they’re so close that he can feel Grantaire’s warm breath brush on his skin as the man speaks. “Relax, imagine I’m a cute rich blond chick your mother wants to set you up with. I know this will be painfully hard but you need to try. Follow my steps and then we’ll switch.”

 _Follow my steps_ sounds like an easy enough order, only it’s completely impossible. How exactly is Enjolras supposed to follow Grantaire’s steps when he doesn’t know what they will be?

Arms are thrown around his waist and he realizes he should probably wrap his own around Grantaire’s shoulders, so he does, clumsily enough for neither of them to comment. He can still feel Grantaire’s warm, firewhiskey-and-butterbeer breath brushing against his cheek and when he realizes it is slightly difficult for him to breathe, he blames it on the heat of the room. They move like that in silence, a small distance between them, stepping a few times on Grantaire’s feet and hearing him cursing under his breath. It is almost nice, Grantaire smells of alcohol and cigarettes and chestnut and cheap after shave but it isn’t all that bad, and he realizes that the shorter man is smirking slightly. His heart flutters in his chest and he fears that Grantaire will sense it, but just then he hears the man’s hoarse voice in his ear.

“You’re doing good, Apollo. Surprisingly good. I can still feel my foot.”

“Don’t call me that!” he snaps, then calms down a bit. “Thanks… Really?”

“Really.”

His heart is now doing funny things and he wishes he would be able to control his breathing but it really is impossible.

“Apollo?”

“WHAT?”

“I still owe you that hug, you know…”

They continue moving slowly, holding each other and it should feel strange but somehow it feels normal, _right,_ it feels as if that’s how they should always be and there’s no way for him to explain it. “You’re drunk, R.”

“I know,” a small chuckle. “Also, I was kidding.”

Enjolras feels puzzled. “Kidding?”

“You really are a terrible dancer.”

*

He sees him excusing himself and getting up while the others laugh loudly to some joke, he sees the gentle smile that has almost frozen on his face, having grown distant and melancholic, he sees his small figure sliding between the yawning bodies and peering outside, in the balcony behind the curtains. He feels his chest tightening before he gets up and follows him.

The cold air hits his face the moment he gets on the balcony and he immediately regrets not having taken his jacket. Jehan has his back turned to him and is leaning forward as if he’s trying to touch the sky. He can see the curve of his body and the smoke from his cigarette meddling with the frosted clouds of his breath. Jehan notices his presence without turning around to look at him. “I’ll soon return inside, don’t worry,” he says softly, his voice breaking slightly. “I just want to finish my cigarette.”

“Ferre roasted chestnuts in the kitchen,” he says in an effort to cheer him up. “Come, before they get cold.”

Nobody moves though. They both stand there, silent. Jehan quietly hands his cigarette to Courfeyrac and he takes a drag, his heart rate picking up ridiculously at the thought that his lips are touching what Jehan’s lips already have. He hands the cigarette back to him again and they stare at the city that lies above them, the Christmas lights on the streets and the balconies. There is enough light for a photo and the familiar weight hanging from Courfeyrac’s weight doesn’t reminds him how beautiful Jehan is with his hair loose on his shoulders, blowing in the wind and his eyes so distant. His already frozen hands reach for his camera. “May I take a picture of you?”

Jehan turns to face him. His eyes are red rimmed and Courfeyrac’s insides clench even more tightly. “I don’t think it is the best moment for that, Courf.”

“Why?” Courfeyrac hears his voice much more stubborn and childish than he’d like it to be. “You look beautiful. You always do.”

Jehan chuckles bitterly before facing away again. Courfeyrac aches, he aches to see him like that, he aches to know that his heart is given elsewhere, that he’ll never have him, yet it’s alright. It might hurt but he needs to make him feel better, he needs to see him smile. He raises his camera and snaps a picture. Jehan narrows his eyes at the flashlight before letting a small sigh. “Really, Courf. I’m sorry but I’m not in the mood.”

“No, I’m sorry,” mutters Courfeyrac, feeling his cheeks burn. His hand reaches for Jehan’s before he’s able to pull back. His skin is freezing. “I’m sorry that you feel like that. He’s an asshole. He’s never deserved you.”

Jehan tries to pull away. “It's not his fault, Courfeyrac. I’ve been a fool all along. I go and have my heart smashed again and again. Pain seems to be magnetizing me quite sadistically and I always aim for what turns out to be doomed.” He turns to face him and Courfeyrac knows he’d do everything to show him… “I fall in love again and again, only to be reminded how naïve I am, how wrong and hopeless.”

There is silence for a while. No one seems to mind the cold anymore. Jehan’s laughter echoes hysterical in the silence. “I can’t do this, Courfeyrac.”

“What?” the brunet asks, alarmed. “What can’t you do?”

“I can’t live here.”

A heavy weight starts sinking lower and lower in his stomach. “What do you mean?” his voice comes out strangled. “Have I ever made you feel uncomfortable? I’m sorry if I bring friends over sometimes, and… and I promise to stop singing in the shower if it really is that horrible! You can pick the horror movie next time, I swear…”

“Stop it, Courfeyeac,” croaks Jehan, stepping on the smoked cigarette. He brings the bridges of his hands to rub his eyes. “I can’t. Don’t you see what’s happening to me?” His voice is unnatural now, almost choked. “It’s not your fault… I mean, you do that to people. It’s my fault, it always is. I tend to make the wrong choices. I’m falling in love with you,” he’s breathless by now, “and _I know it,_ God I know that it’s _wrong_ and that you’re _different_ and we can never be like that yet I’m unable to stop myself from falling deeper and deeper and _fuck,_ Courfeyrac I can’t do this anymore, I can’t afford fucking this up all over again!”

It’s Courfeyrac’s lips that shut him up, pressed fiercely against his own, causing his brown eyes to open widely in shock and then to slowly drift shut as he melts into the kiss. It tastes of chocolate and peppermint and a little salty, like tears, and Jehan throws his fingers through Courfeyrac’s curls, sighing blissfully into the kiss, as the other man’s hands come to cup his cold face. They kiss each other breathless, their hearts pounding madly in a synchronized manner against their pressed bodies, and neither of them can believe that they’re holding each other so tight in the frozen balcony, the city of love witnessing their freshly confessed love just beneath their feet.

They break the kiss to seek for oxygen and they’re both shocked and it’s beautiful, they feel like children, innocent and young, not obnoxious flirts and broken, hopeless romantic. There is a chance for them to start from the very beginning and maybe, just _maybe_ they have faith in this _._

Their foreheads come to rest together and Courfeyrac smiles glowingly. “Let me,” he murmurs as their frozen fingers entwine. “Please.”

So Jehan does.


	5. And what have you done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan turns around to face him. “For all our sakes. It’s Christmas.”
> 
> For once again as Grantaire puts on his coat and walks out in the rain, claiming he’s going to help at the shelter in order to clear his mind, Feuilly knows that Christmas is exactly the problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologize to everyone reading my stories recently for making everyone sick and woefully tormented by their lungs and sinuses but SERIOUSLY I HAVEN'T BEEN SO ILL IN AGES and I still can't breathe from the cough and these days I needed to write stuff (that also didn't require much concentration of a feverish head) to make me feel I'm not alone so please don't hate me I swear I'm planning to finally start writing serious things and the drama, oh yes of course the inevitable unnecessary drama, here it is, I suppose you know me by now!

On holiday time, Corinthe hosts karaoke nights. They are Éponine’s favorites, not because she appreciates the dreadful off-key voices of the drunken customers singing tacky ‘80s hits, but because everyone’s attention is turned on them rather than on leaving her their phone number, and because people have fun on karaoke nights, and when they have fun the tips are always higher and make her hectic shifts worth it.

It was Grantaire who first introduced them to Corinthe and they immediately all grew to love the place, not for its beautiful décor – _please,_ Éponine would snort. Retro pornographic photography which serves as art surrounded by blue LED light bulbs, even though they’ve all grown to it- but for the amazing cocktails and snacks that Éponine keeps sneakily providing them with. Sometimes Éponine doesn’t have work and they always prefer to have her join them, but tonight she has a shift and Courfeyrac with Bahorel are struggling to get her to sit with them just for a minute. Not that she’d have any objections to that, but her boss probably would.

Enjolras doesn’t really hang out, at least not in bars, but the Corinthe with the kitsch LEDs and the disco lights is different, it’s _theirs_ and on such festive seasons he can’t deny his friends his presence, not when they all look so happy and careless, even the usually melancholic Jehan who is practically glowing, even nervous Joly and sleepy Feuilly.

They drink and they sing and it’s wonderful. Much to Enjolras’ dismay the night starts with an ABBA marathon and Courfeyrac inevitably gives the sign with _Take a chance with me,_ giving a mini half strip showwith Jehan, Bahorel and Cosette cheering and whistling. All that Enjolras knows is that he can only feel thankful they’re not doing Waterloo. Nobody can stop laughing at Bahorel’s attempt to return to their French identity and sing Brigitte Bardot’s _Moi je joue_ and it is only Feuilly who almost smokes through his ears in fury because _nobody disgraces Brigitte_ (Bahorel then won’t stop going on about the poster Feuilly has in his room and gets off to) and the working man decides to take his revenge by getting up and slowly moving to the microphone, cigarette still hanging from his lips to completely seriously perform Charles Aznavour’s _La Boheme,_ his voice hoarse and breathtaking, the lyrics travelling them all to an artistic Montmartre of another era. Apparently that serves Bahorel right, because his jaw has practically fallen to the floor by the time Feuilly casually returns to the table, having the whole shop cheer, nearly in hysterics.

Combeferre is a surprise to them all when he sings Leonard Cohen’s _Suzanne_ in a surprisingly nice voice, correct and warm and mellow, and the whole bar goes respectfully silent because it’s really great. It’s Joly and Bossuet who do the _Baby it’s cold outside_ duet because apparently Musichetta (who wouldn’t stay back home with any of them even when it’s possible for her to go into labor right now, right here) has saved the best for last. She sings Nora Jones’ _Turn me on,_ looking gorgeous in her tight black turtleneck, stretching dangerously over her huge bumpand causes many jaws to drop. Jehan does _I am the walrus_ in a glorious psychedelic manner, his hair long and loose, holding the microphone climbed on Bahorel’s shoulders and it’s stunning as the disco lights suddenly seem more psychedelic as well and everyone’s mesmerized more for his performance than for his voice. Marius and Cosette make everyone feel uncomfortable when they do Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin’s _Je t’aime moi non plus._ Cosette’s voice is dangerously sensual but poor Marius completely freaks out because he apparently doesn’t know the song and hasn’t been waiting the turn of the lyrics on the screen. Thankfully Éponine comes to their aid without even caring for her off tune voice because she drops the serving disc on the counter and grabs the microphone to hoarsely scream The Beatles’ _Why don’t we do it in the road._ Combeferre is rendered speechless. She’s in a burgundy t-shirt, a short leather skirt and a pair of army boots. Her lower lip is pierced and painted burgundy, her eyes dark and dangerously glistening. She’s wearing tights ripped at the thigh and she doesn’t even make an effort, her movements clumsy as always, her voice worse than everyone else’s but he can feel his heart catching on his throat and for a while he can’t move because he can only stare at her and she has everything he doesn’t. Their eyes meet across the stage and just then Grantaire joins, dressed in a leather jacket and the tighter black jeans there are and they sing together before he returns to ABBA’s _Does your mother know_ and Enjolras thinks this is the most absurd thing he’s ever seen because _how dare he_ have a good voice apart from all his other talents when all _he_ can do is croak like a frog if he ever tries to sing? And how dare he stare at him with that mocking expression on his face, his eyes so painfully blue and his lips curled to that sarcastic smirk, making Enjolras feel like a child being laughed at.

Bahorel is talking to a girl at the bar, then Feuilly is talking at the same girl, then they’re dancing aggressively as if they hate each other, the girl particularly confused, they share the same cigarette in a manner that screams _I FUCKIN’ HATE YOU_ when they really don’t. Everybody’s much more drunk than they should be, Joly giggling uncontrollably with Musichetta’s shawl wrapped around his head, Bossuet and Marius doing the hula hoop with an invisible one and Courfeyrac with Jehan are rather preoccupied doing something on terms very near of sucking each other’s face which really should be uncomfortable but apparently is _hot,_ at leastCosette and Musichetta agree on that, the two men’s bodies pressed together so perfectly like they’ve been made to fit like one, tasting each other beneath the disco lights slowly and hungrily.

Éponine has left her post for a while after growling to a customer or two and is currently dancing with Grantaire in the middle of the dance-floor, only there should probably be a law against dancing like sex in public places because it does make Enjolras particularly uncomfortable and he wishes he could take his eyes away from them but he can’t, not really because they move like heaven and hell combined together, curve after curve and breath after breath. His arms are around her waist, her dark, wild hair swirling in the air as the disco lights go on and off and on and off… His black curls are bouncing around his tilted head, exposing his throat, long and curvy and covered in a thin layer of sweat, his blue eyes shut and his thin lips half-parted in ecstasy. He’s gotten rid of the leather jacket and his tight t-shirt is rolling up his abdomen, revealing a streak of pale flesh that shouldn’t have been revealed and his hips, oh his _hips…_ Enjolras has seen Grantaire dance before, numerous times, they’ve even danced together, but never has the man been swaying in a way that should be illegal in such tight jeans, causing Enjolras’ pulse to pathetically pick up as Grantaire pulls Éponine closer, and his insides to hurt with a tight pang.

Everyone’s having fun, dancing and singing and drinking yet he’s stuck on his seat, unable to move with Combeferre sitting next to him with his drink in his hand, looking particularly flustered with his eyes fixed on the dance-floor. “Do you mind?” he mutters, bringing Enjolras back to reality. The blonde shakes his head and watches as Combeferre makes his way to the dance-floor, his shirt sleeves rolled up and he rolls his eyes because _of course_ he’d do the tattoo thing again and he says something to Grantaire and Éponine who stop dancing and smile, and _of course_ it works because both of them are looking awestruck at the tattoo sleeves with illustrations of the biggest inventions, Latin words and anatomy and asterisms, all hugging Combeferre’s arms which are usually hidden from the public eye. Grantaire looks particularly impressed and Enjolras feels a pang of jealousy but soon the man chuckles mischievously and leaves Combeferre and Éponine alone. Enjolras’ best friend is behind the girl, his tattooed arms gently wrapped around her waist, hands resting on her abdomen beneath their own and they look intimate, natural in a way Enjolras has never been with anyone and it’s strange, so strange because for once he cares, for once he feels alone in the middle of a crowded room and he _doesn’t want_ to be.

Grantaire appears from nowhere, tattering slightly before he lands on the seat near Enjolras. He smells of alcohol and cigarettes, of fresh sweat and leather, and Enjolras feels his muscles tensing at his presence. He has seen Grantaire drunk in the past, much more than once though something’s different tonight, Grantaire is _very_ drunk yet Enjolras does not feel repulsed, only fascinated and confused, so _terribly_ confused because tonight he wants to be closer to him, he wants to hear him laugh like he does right now, so clear and warm and _real,_ he wants to laugh with him and talk to him and maybe _touch_ him, just touch his hand, callused and wrapped around his glass, feel the reassuring warmth of his skin against his own, touch his shoulder, his unshaven chin, throw his fingers through the wild curls of his hair…

“Everyone’s sung something, Apollo,” the man mutters hoarsely. “Everyone but you. Is your voice too angelic for our mortal ears to behold? Are you too good to grace us with your talents?”

Enjolras snorts, feeling annoyed at the mocking tone that he’ll never get used to. The music is too loud and the bar is flashing with the lights and his head has already started spinning. He regrets accepting a drink from Courfeyrac, then another. He hardly ever drinks, why did he have to do this tonight? “In fact I care too much for my friends not to torture them with my terrifying singing voice,” he mutters coldly and Grantaire chuckles again, leaning so dangerously close that Enjolras can feel his warm breath on his skin, he can smell the cocktail explosion and count the few dark, rich freckles that are painted on his face. “Dance with me?”

It’s easy as that. He doesn’t know how it happens, or why. Grantaire just asks and he just accepts, maybe it is that everyone, even Combeferre is dancing their lives out to festive songs, maybe it is the alcohol in his veins and the spirit of the days which can hardly leave him unaffected anymore, maybe it is Grantaire’s bright blue eyes, glowing fixed upon his own but it’s easy as breathing, they end up on the dance-floor swaying carelessly. His insecurities about his awkward dancing soon dissolve into thin air, or maybe cigarette smoke that fills their senses and somehow manages to take over their mind. Feuilly and Bahorel are dancing aggressively near them but they can’t see them because their glances are fixed into each other’s as if the other will disappear if one shuts his eyes just for a second. Grantaire throws his head back and exposes his throat, his expression that of pure ecstasy, Enjolras shuts his eyes and sucks in the sentiment of pure freedom as they dance, hands coming to rest on each other’s waists, breathing erratic and unsynchronized. When he opens them, Grantaire has not dared to shut his own as if he lives to stare at him and they’re blue, so blue and glowing in the blue LED light that goes on and off to the beating of the music or of their hearts, he doesn’t really know what. Their bodies come closer to each other as if dragged by an invisible force, their chests are touching, their hips are touching and Enjolras has long ago forgotten how to breathe, Grantaire’s breath is hot against the crook of his neck and his own fingers are unconsciously running through dark locks.

“Outside,” he hears himself croaking and it’s mostly the movement of his lips that Grantaire notices than the sound itself, as the whole bar is pounding to the rhythm of the music.

The cold air hits them on the face, clearing up his mind a little. It’s a dark alley near the main road that Corinthe is located in and even though he’s drunk more than he should, he realizes that never in his life has he felt surer than this very moment. He can’t think about it any longer, he can’t hold himself or be reasonable. Their faces are just inches apart and his fingers are wrapped around the leather of Grantaire’s jacket, they’re breathing shallowly, frosted on each other’s skin and they’re only a touch away, he could kiss him right now, he could taste the cigarettes and the alcohol and the sweat of his lips, he needs it, he doesn’t know why or how, everything is so painfully new but Enjolras _needs it_ no matter what.

Grantaire’s blue eyes grow dull, empty, his breathing is ragged but his face is cold. Suddenly he feels so distant again, even though hardly anything parts them anymore. “No,” he says and it’s harsh, wrong, it falls like a slap on Enjolras’ frozen cheek.

“What?” Enjolras instinctively steps back, his heart pounding against his ribcage. “I’m sorry,” he mutters quickly. “I don’t know what…”

“This can’t happen, okay? This will never happen,” Grantaire’s laughter is snarky, it reminds Enjolras of times he’d rather forget. “I don’t want you to pity me.”

Enjolras gapes at him incredulously, unable to believe the sudden turn of events. “What are you talking about, R? This… this isn’t pity!”

His voice softens but the bitterness in it remains. “I know it. You assign me with a task I don’t even remember to work on when you know from the beginning that it’s doomed. You find me a job, all of a sudden you come _closer._ I know what this is, Apollo.”

“Then tell me what it is yourself, enlighten me!” Enjolras throws his hands in the air exasperatedly.

“In your eyes I’m a cause, like any other. You see me broken, you see me fucked up. You want to save me.” He’s slurring his words drunkenly, almost spits them. “You can’t save everyone, Apollo. I don’t want to be saved.”

“Don’t call me that!” snaps Enjolras. “You’re so fuckin’ drunk! You’re making no sense…”

“You and I, we’re so different,” snorts Grantaire. “You don’t care, Enjolras. You never really cared. I’m just a cause, another soul to be saved!” His voice dissolves into loud, hoarse, horrible laughter.

“Shut up!” growls Enjolras, flushed and shaking slightly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! For fuck’s sake, R you’re drunk! I simply tried to help you like I’d do with all of my friends! You could have as well said _thanks_!”

Silence falls. Enjolras is breathing heavily. Éponine and Courfeyrac walk out of the bar to make a cigarette but none of them is paying any attention. Grantaire’s blue eyes look empty, blank. His usual, sarcastic smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes has appeared on his face. “I’m not like one of your friends, Enjolras,” he says finally. “You’ve called me useless in the past, you’ve called me a drunkard. I’m not Combeferre or Courfeyrac or Feuilly.”

“You know what?” murmurs Enjolras, his lips pressed into a thin line. “You are right. You’re not Combeferre, or Courfeyrac or Feuilly. None of them would ever get so shitfaced, none would ever behave like that, without… without making any sense!”

“It hurts, Enjolras,” slurs Grantaire, tattering a little on the pavement, ignoring his friends’ startled presence. “It hurts to love so much and be treated with charity instead of being loved back. You don’t know how this is. I wish you never learn.”

Enjolras makes a step closer, shortening the distance between them. “You always portray me like a little more awkward and a lot more self-bigoted version of Pontmercy. You ridicule everything I do and think of me as a marble statue with no feelings and the mind of a naïve ten year old!” A vein is pounding on his forehead and his ears are red from the cold. “You know what? I’m sick of it!”

“Oh that’s a fuckin’ pity,” snorts Grantaire, looking at the traffic on the road and crossing his arms in front of his torso to warm his slightly shuddering body.

“Look at me!” Enjolras’ furious voice is almost desperate and Courfeyrac is walking towards them to make them stop but nobody’s going to give two shits for him or for Éponine’s angry shouting. Grantaire slowly turns to look at him. “I’m sick of you lecturing me on the love I don’t feel, for the people I fight for, for my friends, for… for everything! I’m sick of you lecturing me of _love_ when you are incapable of loving!”

The silence that falls is palpable, interrupted more from the violent pounding in Enjolras’ head than from the cars that pass before them. “Enjolras…” Courfeyrac makes a gesture to touch his shoulder but he shoves him away angrily. Éponine has already thrown her arms around Grantaire and is trying to growl his way back in the bar but in vain. It’s like his best friend doesn’t exist for him right now.

“I’ve tried! I really have, you know,” continues Enjolras, his face a mask of fury but his burning eyes almost pleading for an explanation. “I fuckin’ wanted this. I don’t know if I do anymore. We’ve all tried to tolerate your pathetic behavior, you managed to make me like you, appreciate you much more than I’d wanted to allow myself yet you did it and I _tried_ because I needed this, it was important for me! However you keep treating us and our ideas like laughable pieces of shit under the sole of your shoe because you simply do not believe in this! Do you believe in anything, Grantaire? Do you _appreciate_ anything? You just make yourself hate everything, push it away. You even hate Christmas yet not for the reasons I do! You don’t even _have_ reasons! You just feed yourself with disdain for everything and everyone who tries to care for you or make it better!”

“Shit,” murmurs Éponine, subconsciously loosening her grip around Grantaire’s arm, yet no one cares for any sound. It’s like the world has gone muted despite the roaring of the passing cars. Grantaire’s expression is blank and cold but calm, so terrifyingly calm.

“My mother killed herself on Christmas day,” he says slowly, almost softly in the end. “I think that’s enough to hate Christmas, don’t you? And contrary to popular belief, I have felt love in my miserable excuse of a life.”

Enjolras freezes on his spot, wishing it can all be a distasteful joke of the ones the dark haired man has always been rather fond of, he begs for his face to crack into a sarcastic, obnoxious chuckle but it doesn’t and Éponine is frozen too, glaring at him, and Courfeyrac is frozen and his pulse is throbbing dully in his head. Nobody ever told him, he could never had guessed, he who always had the shittiest of relationships with his parents, his parents who were still there, their lips pressed in a disapproving expression, waiting for him to return and apologize in the very same way he waited for them to do the same. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, holding his hand out subconsciously to reach for the other man. “Shit, I’m so sorry… I got carried away- I didn’t mean to…”

Grantaire stares at him for what seems like a painful eternity, then slowly shakes his head. “You didn’t know.”

“Let me apologize…”

“I won’t let you,” with a single movement, Grantaire frees himself from Éponine and squeezes her hand before letting her go. “Leave this, Enjolras. You were right. I fucked everything up.” He makes a step away and Éponine hisses “Where the fuck do you think you’re going, asshole?” but Grantaire stops and turns to him. “I will send you the sketches with Feuilly.”

And with that, he turns around and walks away, ignoring his friends’ shouts and curses. Enjolras stands there, cold with shock, a huge lump of guilt blocking his throat.

*

_The most wonderful time of the year my ass!_

Winter is absolutely ridiculous. It’s a pointless season with no other purpose but freezing them all to death. Éponine does not understand why they can’t just have Christmas and then drift back to an endless lazy summer in which she’ll sweat to death and she’ll masochistically love every minute of it.

On second thoughts sod Christmas too. It would be lovely if she had enough money to buy presents to everyone and if she could relax and enjoy the overall seasonal silliness like everyone else, but guess what, there _is no_ money and she had to fight with her boss –and maybe threaten him… a bit- to get the Christmas Eve off in order to go to her brother’s school performance. Other than that she still has to work in the most unorthodox times of the night, _every_ night, with disgusting sexist pigs drooling over her ass and leaving her tips that are hardly enough to afford cigarettes, feeling exhausted and sleep deprived like a zombie for the rest of the day. So yeah. No real point in Christmas, is there?

If Enjolras ever a) stops being an oblivious dickhead and b) overcomes his disdain for positions of power and becomes prime minister she’ll have to make him illegalize winter and all its shit. The rain that hasn’t ceased today, the piercing cold, the annoying tingling on her throat and the throbbing weight on her head which she wakes up to.

Gavroche has already left for a rehearsal at school –the last one before the production on Christmas Eve, when did the 22rd come without her even realizing?- and Grantaire seems to not be at home. A hundred worrying images pass through her mind as she remembers how he’s been the past few days, after the night at the Corinthe. She flaps her arms on the mattress sleepily, trying to untangle herself from the blanket which is a very bad idea, considering that she’s already shivering. She manages to outstretch her body over the pillow and reach for her phone with a groan.

Grantaire’s voice sounds tired and blank from the end of the line. Her heart shatters a little. “’Ponine? What happened?”

“I just wanted to see…” _if you’re trying to drown yourself in the downpour,_ “where you’ve gone.”

She can hear children’s merry voices through the phone and she shuts her eyes tightly at the pain which has settled on the back of her head. “I’m at the library. I have the volunteering thing with the children’s art today. Friday, remember?”

Thank goodness. “Oh okay. Listen, can you pick up Gavroche from school? I know he hates it when we pick him up but it’s raining cat and dogs and he probably left home without an umbrella.”

“Sure, I’ll get Gavroche. Hey, Sylvie, better use the yellow marker here, okay?-” A pause. “Listen, I’ve got to go. You don’t sound so good. Are you alright?”

No pause is needed here. Éponine’s _I’m alright_ ’s are instant reactions, always on the tip of her tongue even when her sinuses are revolting against her and her throat feels ripped with a dozen Gryffindor swords. “I’m alright. Just a little tired.”

“You’re sick, aren’t you?” Grantaire’s voice is too knowing and he can hear the swearing on it even though she knows he can’t curse around the kids he teaches to paint.

She lets a small groan. “Just a cold. Now leave me the fuck alone and return to your mentoring young prodigies, kay?”

“I don’t think so,” he mutters. “No, Philippe we _don’t_ throw paint on other kids, that’s not cool-” he returns to the phone. “I’ll call Joly to come and take care of you.”

“The fuck you won’t,” she growls, resulting to a dry, painful cough she hadn’t noticed that had settled in her chest. “Musichetta’s about to give birth any time now, for fuck’s sake! I’m not going to die, you butthead!”

Eventually Grantaire calms down and returns to his job because little Nicolas is eating his clay and this most definitely is _not_ good, and Éponine falls back on the pillow with a sigh. Lovely, just _lovely._ Splendid, in fact. Her throat is on fire and she isn’t even a cool-ass dragon able to spit it on everyone who happens to piss her off. Her head is pounding so much that she can’t even keep her eyes open, so she shuts them tightly and moans, and she can’t even lie down because a wrecking cough is boiling in her chest. She’s shivering violently beneath the blankets, and she settles back on the pillows, trying to stop coughing. She finally gives in to the aching of her muscles and drifts into unconsciousness on a seated position, her knees curled near her body.

It is cannons that wake her up, or maybe the apocalypse. She’s thrown up with a hoarse, incoherent sound and realizes that she’s been drooling on herself –fuckin’ _charming_ as always- and that the revolution beside her bed is, apparently, the buzzing of her phone. She can feel the irritation in her red-rimmed eyes as she reaches for it, mumbling one curse after the other and her head hurts so much that she doesn’t even notice the name on the screen. She answers with cough instead of words. The voice at the end of the line sounds merely amused. “Beautiful,” he says in that same warm manner that feels like honey dripping from violins made of chocolate and…

Shit, she’s delirious. “Combeferre?” she croaks in surprise.

“Grantaire was right. You don’t sound very well.”

“Did he call you, the little fucker?” she growls menacingly.

“He did, though next time I hope you’ll be the one to call me.”

“Die,” she moans to no one in particular, shutting her eyes and just hoping for every voice and every thunder of the storm going on outside to shut the fuck up.

Combeferre chuckles softly through the phone. “Maybe it would be wiser to make peace with me. I come bearing presents.”

“The fuck you come,” she murmurs. “Stay where you are, no pity visits for you lot today!”

“Too late,” croons Combeferre. “I’m outside.”

Her heart skips a beat. She could have found normal friends, not self-bigoted criminals with shiny hair and murderous painted claws, like Montparnasse and most definitely not genius revolutionary dorks like the group of people who are surrounding her.

On second thoughts, she can handle self-bigoted criminals and their nail polish better. A kick on the balls always brings their inner puppy on the surface. When, genius revolutionary dorks… well, they keep surprising the shit out of her. And it tends to become annoying.

She hangs up and drags her aching muscles out of bed. She can’t believe what’s happening to her, why the fuck did she acquaint herself with so _weird_ people? They shouldn’t care for her contracting a simple cold. They should let her die. That’s what normal people do! Now he’s probably outside, waiting in his grandpa sweater vest, perfectly tied scarf and excellent posh posture, coming to challenge her on the _how-long-will-you-last-until-you-realize-you-don’t-give-a-fuck-about-Pontmercy-and-snog-the-glasses-off-his-face-already._

Because she might or might not have been fantasizing about that. Snogging the glasses of his face, that is. Several times. She might or might not have been thinking of his big, elegant hands around the mugs, wondering how they’d feel around her cold, dry ones, through her hair, on her waist and hips… How her own hands would look on his ruffled, sandy brown hair, those lips… pressing on her own.

She doesn’t have time to wonder what the fuck is wrong with her. She should be happy. She had been struggling to forget about Pontmercy for so long and now that she almost has, she doesn’t want to think about it because this is _wrong,_ it shouldn’t happen that way, it just _shouldn’t._

She takes a glimpse on the broken mirror that hangs on the wall of their crappy living room –for the bombarded and thoroughly undecorated state of which she can’t afford to give two shits right now. Perfect. Fuckin’ _spectacular._ Her nose is runny and red and huge, her eyes stricken with dark circles and her face pale as death. Her lips are ringless and the pathetic, knotted excuse of her hair is pulled on the messiest bun to ever mess on the top of her head and that enormous sweater has seen better days.

 _Fuck it,_ she thinks. _How worse can it get?_ She’s never given a damn about her appearance in first place. Why does she care how if he’ll see her miserable like that? It’s not like he’s hot or something.

Of course he is. Oh of _course_ he fuckin’ is, standing on the doorway in a jumper (not a sweater vest, apparently) and a soaked coat, his glasses blurred by raindrops and his hair dripping with rain, a leather bag in one hand and a paperbag in the other. A small, amused smile which seems to have remained since they hung up gives its place to a more concerned one. “Good morning,” he says, “or should I say afternoon? I feared you’d keep me wait and it would be a pity because I surely know how to break in houses with bobby pins but I don’t happen to have kept any from Jehan and Bahorel’s extreme makeover night.”

She’s rendered speechless because _Combefuckinferre breaking in houses with bobby pins, seriously?_ and thankfully –or not so much- her cough comes to break the silence. “That doesn’t sound very good,” he frowns, “but don’t worry, it’s probably just the flu. Has been going around for a while. May I come in?”

She realizes that she’s kept him standing outside the apartment for all this time, so she steps back and allows him in, mumbling grumpily. “You shouldn’t have come. I won’t die today.”

“Of course you won’t,” he states matter-of-factly, placing the two bags on the coffee table. “And of course I should have come. There’s nothing bad with having some company when you’re a little under the weather.”

“If you catch what I have it will serve you well.”

“I spend the biggest part of my day around patients who carry the same bug. I have grown to believe myself immune,” he smirks.

“Right,” she mutters, dreaming of her warm, soft bed. “Do you want anything? Tea? Coffee?”

“Some tea would be great,” Éponine turns around to head to the kitchen but his voice interrupts her, “that’s why I’ll make some, and you’ll have a cup as well. But later. Now let’s sit down, shall we?”

She turns around to shoot him an incredulous glance. “You’re at my place!”

“And you’re sick.” He takes a seat on the couch, taking off his coat and letting it to dry before tapping the space near him. “Will you do me the honor?”

She rolls her eyes, shakily making her way to the couch and pulling her knees close to her chest as she sits down. Losing no time he presses the back of his hand on her clammy forehead, brushing a few locks of stray dark hair away. She shivers at his cold touch, and finds himself shutting her eyes and leaning in. “You have a fever,” he mutters, reaching for his leather bag to fish a thermometer and hand it to her. “I reckon you’re taking the day off today.”

She doesn’t give the thermometer a second glance, “no fuckin’ way,” she chuckles hoarsely. “I really need to go to work.”

“I don’t think so,” he shakes his head.

“You can’t force me,” she growls.

“Oh, allow me to state that you’re pretty much mistaken. Do you need help to use the thermometer?”

“I’m pretty capable with shoving sticks in my mouth, thank you very much.” Silence falls and it’s palpable. “This sounded very wrong, didn’t it?”

He shrugs his shoulders solemnly. “I don’t have the faintest idea of what you’re referring to.”

It turns out that she does indeed have a fever which pretty much explains the endless shaking of her body and the pounding headache which is murdering her slowly. “Any other symptoms apart from the cough and the stuffed nose? Does your throat hurt?”

She thinks of denying the fact but she finds herself nodding because seriously, how weaker can she show than she already has? “Will you open your mouth so that I can have a look?”

Éponine rolls her eyes before reluctantly obeying. Combeferre smiles encouragingly. “Good, I’d thought you’d be worse than Enjolras but no one can apparently be a worse patient than him.” She realizes how ridiculous and ashamed she feels as he examines her burning throat pretty professionally, peering lights in her mouth and all, and frowning slightly. “Inflamed,” he mutters. “Some hot tea might soothe the soreness a bit.”

“You don’t have to,” she croaks, lying back on the couch and wrapping her arms around her shaking body. “Really, you don’t need to stay here, I’ll be fine.”

He waves his hand in the air dismissively. “I have nothing better to do, Éponine. We had our last class before the holidays today.”

She allows her eyes to drift shut for a while and he returns with two steamy mugs in his hands and a heavy blanket hanging on his elbow. She thankfully accepts the beverage and allows him to wrap the blanket around her shoulders. The hot tea works wonders on her throat though her lungs are still trying to cough their way out of her body. Combeferre hands her the donuts he has brought in the paperbag and she thinks that maybe she _does_ owe Grantaire for calling the Guide of their group to keep her company, even though it’s a little hard for her to swallow the chocolate. He’s brought medicine for the fever, guessing that she and Grantaire hardly keep anything in the bathroom cabinet and a book which he reads quietly while she dozes off in front of the TV.

Éponine hates clichés as much as she hates being boring _and_ bored, so it really is a wonder how she ends up having a _Home Alone_ marathon year after year even though she swears that every time is the last time.

“I’ve always admired Kevin,” mutters Combeferre and she feels him moving from the armchair he’s sitting to the couch to check her temperature. “’m fine,” she mumbles against his touch and he sounds relieved. “Indeed you are. Your fever seems to have dropped.”

“Kevin’s good,” she snorts before blowing her nose in a tissue, “but Gavroche would give him a run for his money.”

Combeferre chuckles softly and she shudders. “It’s freezing in here,” he immediately notes.

“Of course it is. The heater’s broken. We’ve confiscated all the blankets of the apartment and neither Feuilly nor Bahorel are upstairs to give us more. Look, you can go, you don’t need to freeze to death because my place practically sucks.”

Instead of leaving he somehow manages to end up with his arms wrapped around her bundled figure, pulling her closer and warming her up. They pull the blanket around them because that’s what friends do, right? She’s done it with Grantaire before, when they were cold, she’s done it with Jehan and with Feuilly, occasionally with Bahorel. It is normal, it _should feel normal._

It’s normal, nothing to overthink or overanalyze. It’s her own problem that her heart rate has picked up, it has nothing to do with the hands which are resting comfortingly on her stomach, just beneath her chest. It’s her own fuckin’ problem that she wants to sigh in bliss…

_Don’t sigh in bliss. Don’t sigh in bliss!_

She’s sighed in bliss.

“Thank you,” she coughs quickly, half because she really hasn’t felt more thankful in her life and half because she wants to drag his attention away from her erratic heartbeat beneath his hands which is giving her the fuck away.

“Don’t mention it!” he smiles, warm chocolate eyes focused on the TV.

“You were reading som’thing. What were you reading?”

“Dickens,” he turns to look at her and they realize it’s a little hard since she’s _resting her head on his shoulder._ “The full Christmas collection,” he shows her the cover of the old book, scrunching up his nose before she manages to speak. “I know, don’t judge. It’s a ritual I have every Christmas. Usually I do my rituals with Enjolras –the one I do with Courf is the Disney version of the Christmas carol- but Enjolras doesn’t really do Christmas.”

“I think it’s adorable,” she smirks in amusement. “I remember Dickens’ Christmas stories. Haven’t read them since I was little. Our old man didn’t really appreciate books at home.”

A vein trembles on Combeferre’s forehead and Éponine dares to say that he looks epically pissed off but manages to hide it. “Do you want me to read to you?”

She half-chuckles half-chokes. “Read to me? Combeferre, I hate to break it to you but I can read on my own.”

“Why not?” he asks and his voice is so soft that it’s almost caressing her weary senses.

_Really, why not?_

She thanks him again, the shame and humiliation she’d felt in the beginning having completely vanished now and they put the TV on mute as he reads to her, somehow making it so easy to concentrate even for her throbbing head. She’d never thought that reading could be considered a skill, but it is one –of the bazillion ones- that freaking Combeferre definitely possesses. She wishes he’ll never stop and cuddles closer to him, placing her socked feet on his lap. It’s strange, all so strange. She’s had friends who cared immensely for her, Grantaire never let anyone harm her, he always held her when she cried with anger and despair towards unfairness, they’ve gone through everything together and they love each other so much, yet with Combeferre it is different. She hates being taken care of, she hates feeling dependent on someone for the very simple reason that she hasbeen _more_ than dependent in the past, on her parents, on shitty boyfriends… What she has appreciated to Grantaire was that they have always been _there_ without looking _after_ each other yet now, for the first time in her life she _likes_ to calm down and relax for a bit, to forget about everything she has to deal with in her mind and just appreciate the closeness, the warmth one can get from allowing others to help every once in a while.

Apparently Combeferre can also become creepy when he starts reading her mind, because he stops and places the book on the blanket bundle only to ask how Grantaire has been, his expression suddenly worried. She makes a sound with her tongue. “What do you expect?”

He takes his glasses off to wipe them on his sweater. She notices that his eyes are so big without the glasses and shit they almost _taste_ like chocolate, or maybe she’s just delirious from the fever. “He’s not been well, has he? He didn’t sound so well when he called me today.”

She shakes her head and it’s proven to be a pretty bad idea, but no, no. Grantaire has not been well. “It wasn’t his fault,” she begins defensively. “He was drunk…”

“I know,” he stops her, “Enjolras only meant good but he can get quite… awkward when it comes to dealing with people with an actual _face_ and not the faceless people he cares and fights for.”

“He meant good but he ended up being a dick,” she snorts.

“It’s not his fault either. Please, try to understand him. He wants to apologize.”

“Then why doesn’t he?”

Combeferre sighs, wearing his glasses again and pressing them on the bridge of his nose. “It’s Enjolras. He needs some time.” He pauses for a while. “Is there anything we can all do to help Grantaire? Courfeyrac wanted to help to, but Jehan told him he’d better give him some space.”

“He gets through,” Éponine shrugs her shoulders. “I’m glad he does. He’s volunteering to the library today, teaching kids how to paint. He’s going to bring Gavroche when he finishes school.”

Combeferre looks –and sounds- impressed. “There’s much volunteering activity Grantaire isn’t sharing with us.”

Éponine shrugs her shoulders. “He doesn’t see a reason for you to know. He does what he feels, what he sees real meaning in, nothing that he finds pretentious or useless.”

Combeferre nods and they stay silent for a while. “I was wondering…” his voice is unusually deep and serious, “my parents have always appreciated when I brought friends for Christmas but usually everyone has their own family, even Enjolras who isn’t in the best of terms with his own. So I was wondering… I mean…” he clears his throat, “I’d be delighted if you, and Gavroche of course, joined us in Calais for Christmas lunch. I could take you both with the car and of course Grantaire can come as well. I asked Feuilly but he’s invited at Monsieur Fauchelevent’s to eat with Marius and Cosette…” he has flushed and it’s so strange to see Combeferre, the master of composure to _flush_ but she knows, he hasn’t said it yet he knows what he’s meant to say. _Usually everyone has their own family. Everyone but you. You are welcome to feel like you have a family, Éponine. Mum won’t mind. She always asks me whether there’s some pretty girl in my life anyway._

Charity case. Éponine feels like a charity case.

“I’m sorry,” he rushes to add, blushing vigorously, sliding his fingers underneath his glasses and rubbing his eyes in despair. “God I’m sorry, this sounded bad. I didn’t mean that you were my last choice, I…” he groans and opens his irritated eyes to look at her. She doesn’t know how to feel, she can feel her muscles stiffening against his body, his arms are not around her anymore, her head is throbbing violently, it has all become so strange and so wrong, so _suddenly._ “Éponine, you… I _want_ you to be there, okay?” he takes a deep breath, looking absolutely empty of any kind of composure anymore. “I want to spend Christmas day with you, if that’s alright. You…” he heaves a breath, then relaxes, almost shattered. “You are a very important person in my life.”

This is wrong, absolutely wrong in a hundred million ways. She doesn’t know what to answer, she doesn’t know what to think so all she does is cough and she’s on the verge of choking and God, it’s so pathetic and he doesn’t even support her as she coughs because it isn’t nice anymore, or cute or warm, it is strange and she hates it, why did it have to become strange, why did he have to fuck this up, why does _she_ feel so fucked up?

“Thank you, Combeferre,” she manages to say, almost breathlessly. “I really appreciate your offer.” Hope flickers on his face and her insides clench tightly. “But I can’t accept it. Please, understand. It’s hard for me, alright?” he can see his features tightening, freezing on his face, he can hear him swallow. “You know I’ve been… I’ve been in love with Marius for so long, okay? I can’t do this anymore.” it sounds so childish and ridiculous and pathetic. “This… the whole thing can happen. We need to agree on this. Mutually.”

Silence falls. She hopes he’ll understand, he _has_ to understand but even she doesn’t. Their eyes shouldn’t meet. That’s what usually happens in such situations. That’s what she would do, what Marius and Grantaire and Jehan and Courfeyrac would try to avoid: eye contact. But he is Combeferre. It’s obvious that he’s faking his smile, that its existence probably makes his cheeks to ache, but unlike the others he doesn’t even try to hide that. “Of course, I understand,” he assures her. “Don’t worry, it’s quite alright.”

Just then the door opens and Grantaire appears with Gavroche, both soaked by the rain and laughing with something they share.

“I saw you at the wedding! Are you the new boyfriend?” growls Gavroche suspiciously, looking much more menacing than he really feels.

“No, I’m Combeferre, a friend of Éponine and the boys and indeed you’ve seen me at the wedding!” he grins politely, offering his hand which Gavroche eventually shakes with a hint of mischief on his face. “I’m glad to meet you, Gavroche!”

Grantaire seems to be frozen at Combeferre’s sight, who probably isn’t the first person he’d want to see right now even though he didn’t have a problem calling him for Éponine.

“Hello Grantaire, I hope you’re well,” the man quickly stands up. “I have to go, leave you to it. They’re… waiting for me.” _Enjolras. Say it. Enjolras is waiting for you._ “Your fever has dropped,” he makes an attempt to smile at Éponine. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Um, right,” she nods as Combeferre walks past Gavroche. “Thanks.”

It’s but a whisper and only Grantaire hears it. They fall silent. Grantaire knows.

*

The most terrifying decision he’d ever made, to live with Courfeyrac, now seems like the most vital of his life because he simply cannot imagine his life anywhere else. Even the possibility of spending more hours of the day apart than they already do feels dreadful and Jehan finds himself ridiculously clingy and excited. He still can’t believe that they’ve slept together, their skin heated and their arms wrapped around each other, small smiles engraved on their faces through the night, peaceful and tender after the moments of bliss and intimacy they’ve shared. He can’t believe that they’ve woken up like that, Courfeyrac already awake and snapping pictures of him as the misty winter light enters through the window before leaning forward to place soft kisses all over his face. He’s never seen his friend so devoted and every time Courfeyrac cups his chin to pull him to a kiss his heart can’t stop fluttering in his chest as if he’s only a boy, completely unacquainted with love, as if he’s doing that for the first time.

The living room is dark apart from the lights on the Christmas tree and the flames in the fireplace. Jehan is sitting on his favorite place, a shelf full of books with some space just for him to fit in, his pajama cladded legs hanging in the air. He’s reading when the wonderful scent of baked waffles fills the room. It doesn’t take long for Courfeyrac to appear with a plate full of praline and strawberries – _where the fuck did he find strawberries in December?-_ and insist on feeding him small bites and it’s so cliché yet it doesn’t feel like that, it feels unique and precious and heavenly because it’s _theirs_ and nobody shares it with them, every breath of peppermint and cinnamon, every slow, lazy kiss and every loving touch.

They know all the lyrics to _Baby it’s cold outside_ and for once again they find themselves singing, mock-chasing each other around the room, Jehan’s expression he and seductive and for once Courfeyrac feels lost and nervous like a little boy, until Courfeyrac ends up sprawled on the floor in front of the fire with Jehan climbed upon him, breathing heavily. If Éponine or Bahorel saw them they probably wouldn’t stop puking but they hardly care because Jehan’s hands are wandering beneath Courfeyrac’s pajamas and Courfeyrac’s lips are pressed on the poet’s cheeks, on his throat and collarbones, his eyes shut in delight as they roll to their sides and kiss, smirking against each other’s lips, hands carded through disheveled hair and cheeks aching with silly smiles that cannot end and marks from the carpet.

Courfeyrac is beautiful as the firelight reflects on his face, he’s beautiful as he murmurs words of intimacy and adoration in his ear, as he cradles him against his naked chest until they fall asleep under the Christmas tree. The wrapped packages with the presents are just a breath away from their entwined foreheads yet they’re not impatient, they can wait.

They have already gotten their Christmas present.

*

Both Jehan and Feuilly feel particularly worried when they learn from Grantaire and Gavroche accordingly that Éponine is ill and they all gather to the apartment, carrying a huge, almost finished orange lobster costume and a box with lemon lozenges (Feuilly) as well as movies, blankets and a rare, huge smile (Jehan). Thankfully Éponine is feeling better by evening, fever low and nose less congested and as they’ve both brought light bulbs and handmade ornaments, they try to cheer her and Grantaire up by decorating the small, sleazy apartment a little. It is Gavroche who stands up excitedly and helps them instead, as neither Grantaire nor Éponine seem in the mood to blend in the spirit even when Christmas is only two days away.

They can all see the brightness on Jehan’s expression, they can hear him humming carols through his lips and the green beanie clashing with his ginger hair is obviously knitted by him. Feuilly can only feel thankful towards Courfeyrac even though he teases Jehan for his absent-mindedness, and he wishes everything would be easier for Grantaire as well.

“Talk to him,” Éponine mutters, curled around Grantaire on the couch. “You both fucked it up. Now give him a chance to say he’s sorry.”

“He isn’t,” murmurs Grantaire. “Neither am I.”

Jehan turns around to face him. “For all our sakes. It’s Christmas.”

For once again as Grantaire puts on his coat and walks out in the rain, claiming he’s going to help at the shelter in order to clear his mind, Feuilly knows that Christmas is exactly the problem.

*

He feels his blood freezing in his veins as the words land numbly inside him without making any sound but a dull buzzing which eventually comes to settle in his head. “What do you mean he volunteers?” he hears his voice coming out croaked as he places the mug Combeferre brought him back on the table and stares at him, bewildered.

“He volunteers, that’s all that I mean,” the man replies obviously with no mockery in his tone. “He might have seemed lazy to us once, but he’s trying hard to fill his time; he has no job and we all know how he needs one to pay half of the rent. He teaches children to paint on Fridays, he helps Feuilly at the homeless shelter –yes, the homeless, even though he won’t let you know, and Feuilly says he only started after that day at the Musain when you snapped at each other. He spends some evenings with Cosette at the animal shelter. Jehan told me.” Combeferre leans forward, resting his elbows on his parted knees. “He’s a kind man, Enjolras. He seems loud and obnoxious with his affairs yet he doesn’t let you –any of us- know that he cares. He struggles to convince himself that he doesn’t yet he cares just as much as we do. The only difference is that we see things optimistically and we try to change them when he’s been disappointed, much more than the rest of us. His life hasn’t been easy.”

“Being horrible to his friends doesn’t make his life easier,” mutters Enjolras hoarsely.

Combeferre nods. “Agreed. But think of it, Enjolras. He has problems with alcoholism. He needs us to understand. He needs _you_.” Enjolras raises his eyes to stare at him, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about…” his voice is quiet, distant.

“I know very well what I’m talking about. We all do. Open your eyes. He’s waiting for you. He _cares,_ Enjolras. He cares more than he’ll ever let show, more than you’ll ever let yourself see.”

He needs a walk, some fresh air. Combeferre nods. He understands. “Take care. Put on your coat.” He has no reason to refuse. He feels already cold on the inside, what’s the point in walking outside in the frost without his coat on? He’s not a child anymore, to prove his bravery or his manhood by not wearing a jacket. The ways have changed now, who does he need to prove anything but to himself?

He walks across the streets of Paris, still full of people who are catching up with their last shopping. He watches them solemnly bending and giving coins to the homeless sleeping on the street, not throwing them guiltily from a distance like the other days, not pretending they don’t actually see them, just smiling sheepishly as if they think they’ve redeemed themselves for buying a new plasma TV – _“A small gift to myself!”_ He can’t really blame them. He can’t blame those who have food and heating and a nice, safe house like he does, because all he fights about is for everyone to have what would make them happy. Enjolras loves. People may tease him for being made of marble, people may not understand the _ways_ in which he loves but he knows he does and he does it fiercely, fervently, with every fiber of his being. He loves the people, so much that this very love drives him to disdain, for those who don’t care, for those who don’t help, for those who are selfish and arrogant and horrible. He grows to disdain his own parents for the life they’ve chosen to lead, stepping on others’ weaknesses and misfortunes to be rich and it’s so strange to feel that every minute driven by hate is actually driven by love.

It’s hard to realize, but that very thing connects him with Grantaire, Grantaire who does everything on excess, Grantaire who doesn’t feel sad, but desperate, Grantaire who doesn’t dislike but hates, Grantaire who doesn’t tease but snarkily mocks. It’s the same man who once believed so much that he had to save himself from that curse. It’s the same man who once felt so disappointed from the world around him that he felt the need to convince himself that _he_ was equally disappointing, even more.

Grantaire, who doesn’t love but worships.

There is a lump on his throat as he hands a ten euro note to a homeless man who almost bursts into tears, mumbling grateful _Happy Christmas_ ’es to him as he quickly walks away and it makes him feel ten times more awful, ten times more like _them,_ because he is supposed to feel well that he did that, he is supposed to feel happy, even proud but he doesn’t, he fuckin’ doesn’t because he’ll return home and make his coffee in his shiny coffee machine and read with no distractions at the warmth of a heater and a fluffy blanket when other people won’t even dream of any of these this Christmas, and all he did was give ten euros.

He returns home and makes that coffee before wrapping his robe around his body and settling on his desk. The weather has suddenly become really colder and his insides clench tightly at the thought of the people who will have to sleep at metro stations –and will actually be lucky compared to others- tonight. He needs to send some emails to the shelter and the hospital. He needs to talk to Joly and Feuilly and Courfeyrac and arrange the last of things before they all meet to start working endlessly for the following days. It’s hard to concentrate on anything, really, and words that Grantaire had spoken to him once keep swirling in his mind. _That’s what it feels to fail,_ he thinks, feeling painfully cold and empty, finding himself dreaming of someone to be close to him and hold him in his arms. _That’s what it feels to be small before things, to realize that even if you’re going to change some things you’ll never change the world._ He feels small. He knows he can’t save everyone. It’s so fucked up, and he can only think of the job Grantaire could have gotten, the ease it could have brought to his life. His insides fill with boiling shame yet he doesn’t know exactly what for.

Images for that night at the Corinthe are painfully piercing his head. His horrible, harsh words, Grantaire’s drunken disdain, the expression on the man’s face after everything went to hell. There’s nothing he can do now, no way he can make up for his mistakes. He feels small and helpless and he absolutely hates it.

He wishes Combeferre would be at home but he’s probably left for the hospital. He hides his face in his hands and groans. The coffee has gone cold.

He wants to apologize, and he knows he’s lost his chance.

 

 

*

He watches the children’s faces light up as they learn new things, thirsty for life, smiling when their parents visit even while knowing they’ll spend Christmas in the hospital. Sometimes Grantaire can do it, but not now, after he says goodbye to his new young friends to return home. Not now, not anymore.

He lies back on bed like Jehan used to do sometimes, staring at the ceiling and wishing for the world to stop, just for a while, he wishes for a break because his mind can’t take one painful realization after the other anymore, he can’t deal with it, he needs to drift into oblivion.

Grantaire drinks. He drinks to forget yet he manages to remember. He remembers some Christmas of possibly another life. He remembers _her,_ hair long and fiery red. She used to dye her hair again and again, in all those different colors. He remembers how beautiful she seemed in his childish eyes, always, in her leather skirts and knee high boots and hippie tunics. He remembers her scent, cigarettes and whiskey and some cheap perfume. She didn’t smell like other mothers but for him it was like mothers should smell. He remembers his father, sometimes smiling and joking, some others distant, loud, terrifying. He remembers the scary noises behind shut doors before he grew up a little and started tasting some of his mother’s life.

Grantaire drinks and, after a while, Grantaire cries.

 


	6. I'll have a blue, blue Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac throws his eyes in the air exasperatedly. “Oh yes isn’t it the fuckin’ apocalypse? You ruined everything, Ferre. Now the monarchy will prevail and we’ll all get pregnant and die!” he proceeds in ruffling a bewildered Combeferre’s hair. “You seriously need to calm down and this shall only come when you get yourself laid. And I always thought you were the rational one who knew how to deal people! Sometimes my friend you’re worse than dear old Enj!”

Courfeyrac’s parties are always the best parties. If your idea of good parties involve dangerously mixed drinks, crossdressing, marshmallows and people in various states of undress. Ever since Enjolras’ eighteenth birthday, when a stripper covered in oils and burst out of his cake though and presented himself as his birthday present from ‘Monsieur de Courf’, the young man started reconsidering every time before he agreed to attend any of those parties. That, apart from some times when he felt up to it, like in his best friends’ surprise birthday parties, when he found himself more than interested in helping to make something nice for them. Other than that though, Enjolras is not a party person.

This time is no exception. This time Enjolras feels inexplicably angry towards Christmas, this time he is irritable and Combeferre knows not to insist οn anything, Courfeyrac knows to be silent. This time Enjolras doesn’t want to be anywhere because no matter how much he loves his friends, he still needs to be alone. He could go to the shelter and continue the hard work they’ve all been doing the past few days. He could stay at home, in silence and peace, he could have some sleep, try to numb himself from the thoughts messing with his head. The problem is that _this_ time, Enjolras has to be somewhere else. He may still disagree with his parents, they may still fail to understand each other but they _are_ his parents and he has promised to be there tonight. Right now he’d pick the party Courfeyrac’s party over and over again but he knows he can’t.

They pass from Courfeyrac’s in the evening, just to see their friends for a while, Combeferre and he. Courfeyrac and Jehan who have been preparing the place all day are now ready for the Christmas show in Gavroche’s school which they will attend before the party, Combeferre is ready to drop him at his parents’ and the two of them are already in their suits. Enjolras hates every thread of it that will help him blend in the atmosphere of his parents’ reveillon but Jehan fixes his tie and Courfeyrac lightly smacks his ass, earning a hiss. “You’re looking perfectly bangable,” he moans, not that any of them looks any less than perfect. Jehan, in his plum velvet blazer, black lace blouse and silver metallic pants –seriously, where does he even _find_ that stuff?- and Courfeyrac in his haute couture electric blue jacket –Enjolras shudders at the money that was probably spent for this-, Combeferre looking smart in a formal suit very similar to his own, yet Enjolras still happens to feel out of place, awkward and uncomfortable, his shirt already sticking on the clammy curve of his back, his tight blazer almost suffocating him and he has the urge to roll down on the carpet just for the sake of ruining the fuck out of it.

Jehan pretends to raise a jealous eyebrow at Courfeyrac’s teasing attention but he only manages to look amused as Courfeyrac abandons Enjolras and throws his arms around his boyfriend, pulling him to a lazy kiss.

“Do you have to? _Now_? Can’t we just all wish to each other and then proceed to whatever on Earth we have to do?” Enjolras moans and Courfeyrac breaks the kiss, turning to look at him with the most offended expression possible.

“Yeah, get rid of your friends as fast as you can! First you don’t come to the party and then you aren’t even willing to spend _thirty minutes_ with the people who’ve practically nurtured you and brought you up to be the pretty ass you are today, and don’t you try deny it!” Courfeyrac cries, looking hurt.

“No,” Enjolras shakes his head wearily. “It’s not that. Of course I want to spend time with my friends, much more than I do with a bunch of self-bigoted assholes in clothes that could feed an entire village if sold. I just said that I’d rather soon get over and done with it.”

“We’ll miss you tonight,” Jehan says sadly.

“I know,” Enjolras’ voice is soft and the beginning of a headache has started throbbing behind his meninges. “I’ll miss you too.”

Courfeyrac groans before throwing himself in Enjolras’ arms, together with a cloud of Bleu de Chanel, practically smothering him in an affectionate hug. Enjolras hugs him back, burying his face in his best friend’s neck. “There,” he mutters a little awkwardly, “I’ll be with you guys tomorrow, we have work to do. No need to feel sad. Have fun, okay?”

Courfeyrac smooches his friend’s cheek noisily and Enjolras can’t hold back a smile. “Merry Christmas,” the brunet says and Enjolras nods. “Yeah… Merry Christmas.” Jehan throws his arms around him then, smelling faintly of gardenias and narghile –Bahorel will probably have to reconsider the Christmas presents he gives to his friends. The man kisses him on the cheek and Enjolras kisses him back. “Merry Christmas, Enjolras. Try to have fun… somehow.”

It’s only after they part and he turns to leave with Combeferre that he hears Courfeyrac muttering, his voice rarely serious. “Grantaire said he wasn’t coming.”

Enjolras has to try hard not to freeze in his place, not because he cares of them noticing, but because he can’t allow his mind to descend to such thoughts, not now.

“I think he’ll spend Christmas Eve on his own,” murmurs Jehan.

Silence falls. Combeferre’s face is shadowed by concern as he softly touches Enjolras’ arm. Enjolras finally returns to face his friends. “I wish he wouldn’t, Jehan. Believe me, I do.”

The journey to Enjolras’ old neighborhood is silent. He’s staring out of the window, at the lights of the city and the cars as people drive to meet their loved ones, dressed in their best clothes with excited smiles on their faces, some of them ready to party until the morning, others planning to celebrate the birth of their lord in church, cars full with families and friends, streets emptying as people start to gather inside. Enjolras feels an outsider, a spectator of all this which can hardly touch him now. His mind drifts faintly to Grantaire and he feels a pang on his chest at the thought of him, staying at home or wandering around alone, trying to drown everything in alcohol. Jehan didn’t try to imply it was his fault when he informed him about Grantaire, Jehan would never blame him yet he knows. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him.

Combeferre pulls the brake in front of his parents’ house, illuminated and grandiosely sumptuous, music and voices being heard from the inside. Enjolras’ stomach makes a thing, a rather uncomfortable sort of thing as Combeferre softly mutters that they’re here, as if he hasn’t noticed himself.

Combeferre pulls him into a gentle hug, smelling so reassuringly, of cocoa and wood and some elegant cologne, much more comforting and familiar than his childhood home will in a few minutes. He wants to cling on his best friend, Combeferre can’t leave him alone, not now, but none of his friends were ever invited to the reveillon. They break the hug and he can see that Combeferre is smiling encouragingly and a little mischievously, in a way only his dearest of friends can be privileged with seeing. “Give them hell,” he breathes before squeezing his shoulders. He then clears his throat, looking a little uncertain in the dim alarm lights of the car and the bulbs on the houses of the street. “I have something to give you. Consider it an early Christmas present, not from me. Feuilly gave it to me.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow questionably as Combeferre stretches his body to reach for a paper envelope on the back seat of the car, handing it to him. Enjolras opens it with steady fingers only for his heart to catch on his throat.

Half a dozen of sketches are inside, genius, ironic sketches with political content that make his breath hitch on his throat. His fingertips brush softly over the pencil-marked sheets of paper, staring at each of them, sucking in the dark, sharp drawing style of Grantaire’s.

“Merry Christmas,” Combeferre mutters quietly.

“Thank you Ferre,” he nods, feeling his throat dry as paper as he carefully places the envelope in the inside pocket of his coat. “Merry Christmas.”

“Oh, I almost forgot! Feuilly also asked me if that aquarelle of Grantaire’s you asked him for a month ago suited you for that thing you needed to do for the group.”

Enjolras’ mind seems to have gone blank but he soon remembers all about it, the bright red envelope that arrived in his address, the mails he had sent and received, all the plans… Now everything has grown into distant memories. “Yes,” he mutters, “tell him it was just fine.”

“What thing was that?” Combeferre sounds genuinely curious. “I don’t remember you mentioning…”

“Just a thing,” mutters Enjolras quickly. “Nothing of significant importance.” He opens the door of the car. “Well, merry Christmas, my friend! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Combeferre smiles again and nods. “Merry Christmas.”

As he steps outside and walks to the door, being welcomed by ballroom music and the scent of polished, perfumed floors, he can’t help but imagine Grantaire’s mocking reaction to all this, if he was here. As his mother comes to greet him with a hug and a full body scan of his appearance, he can’t help but miss him…

*

Joly and Bossuet stretch their bodies across the floor of the bathtub so that Musichetta can comfortably rest on them, her head resting back upon Bossuet’s shoulder and her legs sprawled on Joly’s chest. “This is getting so fuckin’ uncomfortable,” she growls, trying to fit herself in the tub, though having her huge, chocolate-skin bump peeking out of the water.

“You don’t have to do this if you’re not comfortable,” mutters Joly anxiously, rubbing his thumbs across her swollen legs.

“No, babies,” she smiles with a grimace of pain. “This is only going to help.” Her hand reaches for the closer piece of skin, Bossuet’s cheek and strokes it gently. “Look at all the beautiful work you have done!” She gestures around the bathroom and the two men smile proudly. The lights are off, and the bathroom is dimly lit by small candles that are scattered all around the floor and the edge of the bathtub. In the water float red petals of Christmas Poinsettias and jazz-ified carols are playing on the speakers. The air smells of cinnamon and peppermint and cranberries, they’re soaked wet and their hair is damp, the hot water is helping her relax and the constant pain on her body grow more bearable. It really is the most beautiful Christmas present she could have asked for. “Thank you,” she says in a tender voice.

“We made sure the tub was clean enough, don’t worry,” Joly rushes to reassure her, “Bossuet almost tripped over the candles twice but everything’s fine.”

“Nothing is burnt,” Bossuet winks and Musichetta laughs.

“Don’t worry, it’s perfect. If only my back wasn’t fuckin’ killing me…” she groans.

Joly reaches for her hands. “Hold on me,” he says and she grips on his arms, letting her to help her sit up. “Boss, can you help her turn around?”

“What do you have in mind?” she asks, pouting at the discomfort.

“I know how to help you. Just…” he shifts a little beneath her weight, pulling her to lie on top of him. “Rest your feet on Bossuet, okay?”

She obliges, chuckling softly, but soon her laughter dissolves into moans of relief as Joly starts massaging the chocolate skin of her back expertly, feeling the knots loosening beneath his fingers. “You are so tense,” he murmurs.

“Hey!” whines Bossuet. “I’m jealous! When do I get a backrub?”

Musichetta sticks out her tongue at him. “When you get pregnant!”

“Enough,” says Joly anxiously. “We should be getting out.”

“Already?”

“The water will soon turn cold.”

“Baby, it’s a sauna in here. I’m almost sweating!”

“That’s the _hormones_! I don’t fancy being sick when my girls will be born!”

“Girls? So you’re convinced they’re going to be girls?” Bossuet raises an eyebrow before reaching for the shower gel to rub on Musichetta’s legs and feet.

“Joly baby,” Musichetta pats his hand, “they’re _so_ going to be boys. I’m _doomed_ to be surrounded by boys!”

Joly silences her by leaning forward to press his lips on hers and Bossuet moans in annoyance. “Does Christmas Eve happen to be _Bossuet unappreciation day_ as well?”

They both break the kiss with a giggle, and shift a little in the water. Musichetta cups Bossuet’s face and pulls him to a passionate kiss, before Joly gently pushes her out of the way to pull his boyfriend almost on his lap and embrace him heatedly.

Musichetta tuts teasingly. “What a sight for a pregnant woman to bear…”

The three of them end up tangled together in the bathtub, their arms wrapped around each other.

“We are family,” murmurs Joly with a smile, his hand resting against Musichetta’s round stomach.

“I know,” she sighs contentedly, leaning back for her hair to get into the water, relaxing at the music and the wintery scents. Bossuet’s hands come to meet with Joly’s and he lies back on the bathtub, against Musichetta’s chest. “I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he beams.

“I know honey,” she cackles. “Wait until you’ll have to lift me out of the tub, though!”

*

 

Jehan is already at Éponine’s, helping an untamable Gavroche to get ready for his school nativity production when Combeferre returns to Courfeyrac’s. He finds his friend alone, arranging the music for the party, literally bouncing with excitement. Courfeyrac immediately notices the nervousness in his movements –it’s not like you can hide anything from Courfeyrac- and abandons the laptop and the DJ application. “How are you planning to spend your time while we’ll be at Gavroche’s school, until the party starts?” he asks with a sigh. “Wait, let me guess. You’ll sit here on your own, clean the place a bit for the party and mope around pathetically in that excellent suit of yours.”

Combeferre thinks of denying this but unsurprisingly enough it is perfectly accurate, so he settles for a small smile of surrender again. “Precisely.”

“Come on,” Courfeyrac pouts, taking a seat next to him and pinching him slightly on the sides, eliciting a high-pitched gasp. “We both know you want to go there! Gavroche is gonna kick some ass because he is no ordinary ten-year-old-lobster-in-a-school-nativity-production and Feuilly will be glad to see you there!”

“I can’t, Courf,” sighs Combeferre with weariness palpable in his voice. “You know I can’t. I don’t think I’ve made a very good first impression to Gavroche.”

Courfeyrac snorts. “Bollocks. You _know_ you’re fucking around. Gavroche’s incomparable badassery would never allow him not to _adore_ a babe like you. You’ve hardly ever talked to him at all. It’s Éponine you worry about and that’s a pity because she _wants_ you to be there and Jesus, why was I cursed with a bunch of such ridiculously dorky friends? Man, you should all pay me to fix your lives! I could get rich that way”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing to fix here,” explains Combeferre calmly, “apparently she said it herself. She’s not interested and I managed to make a fool of myself and upset the dynamics of our group.”

Courfeyrac throws his eyes in the air exasperatedly. “Oh yes isn’t it the fuckin’ _apocalypse_? You ruined everything, Ferre. Now the monarchy will prevail and we’ll all get pregnant and die!” he proceeds in ruffling a bewildered Combeferre’s hair. “You seriously need to calm down and this shall only come when you get yourself laid. And I always thought you were the rational one who knew how to deal people! Sometimes my friend you’re worse than dear old Enj!”

Combeferre makes a face at the hideous nickname which soon turns into a grimace of offence. “I’m not!”

“She’s been pining after Pontmercy since before we met either of them! And to be honest, Éponine never was the queen of the heart games herself. She needed space. She needed time. She fucked it up a bit. You gave her both in your noble knightly way. I can’t see a reason for you to stop showing that you care when you most clearly _do_ care, and you should care, not only for _her_ feelings but also for yourself.” Courfeyrac wraps his warm hands around Combeferre’s, and the bespectacled man cannot cease thinking of the way her own, bony hand has felt in his own in the past. It’s only been two days of not seeing each other, two days of guilt and shame and anger towards himself, a day after a couple of awkward text messages that simply assured him that she had recovered from her illness, yet he already misses the scent of her hair and the sound of her voice, so much that he has hardly managed to concentrate on anything else since they parted. “I can’t allow myself to believe that this is going to end all bad,” Courfeyrac says fervently, in the same way he fiercely argues politically, shaking Combeferre’s hands in his own. “I don’t care if science can’t fuckin’ prove this but I _know,_ I just know that things are going to eventually work out, for you, for Enjolras, for Grantaire. It’s Christmas and no matter how shitty the things in our lives may be, no matter how unwilling or incapable we feel to deal with them, in Christmas we are fucking _obliged_ to help miracles happen upon us.”

It’s impossible for Combeferre to not smile at his friend’s genuine, simple yet beautiful words but he knows it doesn’t work like that. “Life is not a rom-com, Courfeyrac. We’re not going to mess everything up only to have it magically fixed in the end, with some epic Christmassy piano composition thrown in the background.”

But Courfeyrac’s green eyes are glowing seriously and Combeferre can’t really see the fault in them, and he remembers the way feverish Éponine felt in his arms two days ago and he wonders if things can now get any worse between them. “Fine,” he sighs, “I’ll get the car.”

At least the huge beam on Courfeyrac’s face is worth it.

*

“What do you mean you’re not sure you remember which one is their apartment?” Combeferre hisses because this really isn’t convenient at all and his stomach is already doing that bouncy thing and his palms are all clammy and he can’t simply knock strangers’ doors on Christmas and pretend he’s doing…

“A survey! Don’t worry,” Courfeyrac says defensively! “We can pretend we’re doing a survey!”

“ _On Christmas Eve?_ A survey on what? The density of Christmas _cookie_ _dough_?”

“Ha ha, you’re funny,” snorts Courfeyrac, his eyes moving quickly between the two doors on the third floor of the building where Feuilly, Bahorel, Grantaire and Éponine live. 

“Go on, call Jehan and ask him!” says Combeferre impatiently, looking all flustered in his suit.

“Why don’t you call Feuilly and ask him?” pouts Courfeyrac.

“Because he’ll think we’re impossible idiots!”

“See, that’s why I don’t call mon petit fleur either!”

Combeferre opens his mouth to protest but he freezes when he realizes that Courfeyrac has already rang the bell.

Apparently of the wrong door.

Three little girls in ballerina and fairy costumes open the door and stare at them from below and Combeferre hurries to say “That was a mistake, sorry to disturb,” noting to pinch Courfeyrac’s sides during the process and cause him to shriek but one of the little girls is already asking “Are you singing carols?”

“Er, no. No, no,” Combeferre hurries to say apologetically because he normally is great with kids but _right now is not the moment_!

“Oh yes, of course we are!” grins Courfeyrac, taking his revenge.

“No we aren’t,” Combeferre almost hisses, but it’s too late. The second little girl is staring at them with huge and admittedly a little scary eyes.

“Please sir, please!”

The other two join in a frighteningly adorable chorus. “Please sir, please!”

And then, much to Combeferre’s horror, Courfeyrac starts singing _Dans cette étable_ and the little girls start dancing excitedly to the rhythm, so Combeferre has no choice but join in in his deep, bass voice, causing Courfeyrac to exclaim “Shit!” It’s only after he hears another, hoarser voice from the other side of the corridor when he realizes that Courfeyrac’s swear was not addressed to his own voice.

“Where the fuck is my fucking coat?” The door has opened. Their eyes meet.

It’s her.

Much to Combeferre’s immediate relief –because he can’t really tell the difference between relief, longing and horror right now- Éponine chooses to address Courfeyrac. “Weren’t you supposed to be coming with us?” she growls menacingly. “Or did you lose your way?”

“Actually, we did,” Combeferre replies apologetically and she can’t pretend to not having seen him anymore. “Courfeyrac forgot which apartment was which.” She rolls her eyes and Combeferre can only sigh in relief when he realizes that she’s actually looking pretty healthy. “I’m glad you’re not sick anymore,” he says softly, and doesn’t even notice the crowd which is formed behind her and consists of Feuilly, Jehan, Bahorel and a lobster.

“I’m glad you came,” she eventually replies in a muffled voice, and at that moment all he can do is believe her words.

It’s Bahorel who eventually clears his throat to break the insufferably awkward silence and then Courfeyrac teasingly joins in before Gavroche, and the three of them end up making a dying whale noises contest, until Feuilly buries his face in his palms with a sigh and shouts “Get your shit together, we’re going to be fuckin’ _late_!” so everyone gets their shit together, Gavroche makes a sassy flirting movement of the orange clawed variety to the awestruck young female neighbors, and their unusual procession starts climbing down the stairs.

They all divide in Combeferre and Bahorel’s cars and it’s really strange, because Éponine goes with Bahorel and Feuilly while Jehan, Courfeyrac and Gavroche go with Combeferre and apparently the lobster Gavroche sits on the front seat and gives him a serious pat on the shoulder with a papier-maché claw while he’s driving, saying sympathetically “you’ve got it bad, buddy but I can give you two a ‘and in pulling your shit together, ‘kay?”

Combeferre gulps in shock and continues driving while Jehan muffles a chuckle from the back seat and Courfeyrac bro-fists –or rather, bro-claws- Gavroche, nodding curtly. “Uh, thanks. I really, um… appreciate your concern.” When he’ll get out of the car after a while, Combeferre will realize that what Gavroche really gave him a hand in, was freeing him from a twenty euro note in his suit pocket.

The streets are shining with moisture and the air is misty and cold. Frosted clouds of smoke escape their mouths as they get out of the car and quickly make their way inside the decorated, festive school in order not to catch their deaths out there. The weather forecast has predicted snow for Paris this year but only the most optimistic and romantic of souls are willing to whole-heartedly believe this.

Gavroche manages to escape from Feuilly and Jehan’s final arrangements of his costume and goes to find his classmates, so the rest of them go to find seats. Combeferre is already following Jehan and Bahorel without really knowing what he’s doing, when he feels a grip on his wrist.

“Follow me,” Éponine whispers in his ear, her breath brushing warmly against his skin, so he does, with his heart pounding in his ears as they run and make their way through the crowd, then through some door and up a few stairs, it’s a dark corridor and he can hear teachers and students getting ready for some number though everything else is really a blur.

“Did you get us backstage?” he asks, panting a bit because yes, Bahorel was right he _needs to work out._ The admiration is still tangible in his voice.

She winks. “I know my way around.” They stretch their necks to look for action on the stage. “Thank you for coming,” she says quickly as if she’s running a race. He notices that her voice is still hoarse from the irritation in her throat and he feels the inexplicable urge to hug her and press his lips on her own but he can’t and he knows that and it’s so sad… “Grantaire had said he’d come but then he disappeared on midday muttering something about visitting his sister and I know he’s not meeting with Audrey until tomorrow and to be honest this had taken me down a bit.” She takes a deep breath. “Listen, we need to talk…”

Combeferre is paying the utmost attention to her words but they’re interrupted by a painfully loud drum beat that signs the beginning of the first student number and they stop because they can’t hear each other and Combeferre’s heart is trying to hammer its way out of his chest because Éponine is tangling her fingers around his own and they watch from backstage as some twelve year old girls do a disturbingly seductive number of _Santa Baby_ and Combeferre is secretly happy that he can’t see Courfeyrac’s face.

Their eyes don’t meet during the following numbers which consist of a hip hop version of the Nutcracker and an opera of the Grinch who stole Christmas –but who really cares- and finally the nativity play of the younger students begins and hell, not only are there several lobsters, octopuses and whales, but the three wise men should probably have been Pikachu, a Teletubby and a satanic Furby, not that anyone ever bothered to teach them the cool stuff at school.

He’s standing behind her and they’re not touching only they almost are, because his breath is brushing on the side of her neck where her hair has been pulled back, her skin shimmering at the reflection of the light bulbs and she doesn’t turn around to look at him only her eyes are still and cheating on the sides like she is, and eventually she reaches back for his hands and slowly pulls them to rest around her waist like that night at the Corinthe when he asked her to dance and they watch the rest of the show. It’s at the final song, (the Coca Cola one) that she turns around, finding himself in his arms and their eyes meet and they stare at each other and they breathe on each other and she wants to say so many things but she doesn’t, only she stands on her toes and presses her lips on his, cupping his face with her hands because there is a fuckin’ _mistletoe_ above their heads, of course there is and her lips are so warm on his own, her tongue wet and fierce and invading and she tastes of cigarettes and mint and alcohol _she has been drinking_ and he moans against her lips, pressing back against her and lifting her in his arms _and God_ _she weighs so light_ and kisses her breathless, harshly and decisively and his chest is about to burst with excitement-

-and the curtains open.

It’s a blurry chaos after that. They see an orange lobster holding the pulley of the thick velvet curtains, flapping his claws in aggressive cheer, and the whole theater, full with people is gaping silently at them, children gawping and they break the kiss and the headmaster who previously introduced himself as Javert stands up, his lips pressed into a thin line but nothing seems to happen because everyone suddenly starts cheering and snapping pictures and Combeferre doesn’t get it because he’s not the fuckin’ prime minister or something, but he can see his friends through the crowd, Jehan is cheering, climbed on the seat and Courfeyrac is doing some kind of victorious dance, as for Bahorel he’s pulled Feuilly whose face has become as red as the roots of his hair into a sloppy and entirely friendly kiss of celebration and Éponine is grabbing his hand and hisses “bow the fuck down,” and he can only smile because _that’s her,_ so they take a bow and it’s only the headmaster who manages to get them off the stage.


	7. Silent night, holy night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bell of the church tolls midnight.  
> “Merry Christmas.”  
> And then, out of the silence of the night, a voice. "Merry Christmas."  
> He turns around to identify the source of the voice and almost jumps up, startled. Hearing voices in a graveyard is not the best sign of sanity but Bahorel brought all this mulled wine earlier so what can you do?
> 
> "How did you know you'd find me here?"  
> "I didn't..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have spent the whole day baking cupcakes and preparing my first Christmas party ever (I mean the first one I'm hosting) in the most amazing Santa socks and tartan pyjama pants and I've made everything in the way it happened in Courfeyrac's and I'm just so excited! I hope everything will go according to plan!  
> I want to thank you all for all your support and to say that I love you, and value your opinions and feedback so much! I wish you the best Christmas Eve with your family or friends or loyal Tumblr friends or ginger cat or whatever the heck you adore because you deserve all of it to be beautiful! <3 Thank you again for everything and have a lovely evening! I'm off to decorate four cupcakes as French boys now!

_Click._

Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta arrive and the camera captures them and God she’s _huge_ , how can she even manage to carry that weight inside her, oh right that’s how it’s because she’s absolutely _glowing_ with that calm expression on her face, stunning in her night blue shimmering dress and immensely happy in the middle of her boys who do the best to take care of her and in all honesty Courfeyrac is seriously considering getting pregnant if that means foot messages from Jehan, science really needs to get the fuck going and the camera loves them, it really does, and Courfeyrac loves them and his camera.

_Click._

Marius and Cosette arrive and the camera can’t not stalk them until the end of the world because _what in the name of fuck did the honeymoon-which-actually-lasted-a-week did to Cosette and why is she so smoking hot in that black gown holy crap_ and _why does Marius have to be so adorably awkward in suits_ and Courfeyrac, the best man that he is can’t not make them feel even more awkward by following them everywhere they go (Cosette is in fact, amused, but Marius eventually drinks too much and gets overly too emotional about Rudolph and the reflection of reindeer bullying and discriminations in society).

 _Click._ Feuilly growling at Bahorel. Adorable. He really does look like a frustrated orange lion pup. Sexually frustrated. Courfeyrac knows that. _Click._ Bahorel rubbing Feuilly’s head under his arm like Sims do. _Click._ What the fuck is fuckin’ wrong with you. _Click._ The desperate ‘no homo’ face. _Click._ The exasperated ‘this is problematic’ response. _Bonus click_ because Bahorel is all bulky and hot in his suit. _Double bonus click_ because Feuilly as a frustrated, roaring lion pup is a massive _yes_ in Courfeyrac’s headcanon list.

_Click._

It’s not Courfeyrac. It’s his _camera_ who follows Éponine and Combeferre who’re making out underneath literally _every_ mistletoe of the apartment –and mind you, with Jehan living in it there is a hella lot of mistletoes- from the living room hidden behind the liquor stash and the kitchen while they pretend to be cutting lemons, to Jehan’s freaking bedroom sprawled upon his bed –not that he uses that bed anymore- and unfortunately both of them are caught on action fully dressed. It really is not Courfeyrac’s fault. These two are such hot dorks and any camera which respects herself can only take advantage of their happiness.

_Click._

He’s the camera’s favorite. He’s beautiful and happy and glowing, his hair pulled in a Game of Thrones braid, the makeup on his face absolutely magical, he walks between his friends and laughs and drinks and dances and their eyes meet and he gives the lens that distant, whimsical smile he fell in love with, eyes illuminated by the lights of the tree and the flames in the fireplace and Courfeyrac knows that Jehan won’t stay happy forever because of him because this isn’t how it works, but Courfeyrac swears he’ll never stop trying.

Courfeyrac abandons his beloved camera and wraps his arms around Jehan’s waist, nibbling on his neck as they sway happily to rhythm of the music and the smaller man laughs, throwing his head back, and that sound is more precious than any kind of music.

Musichetta is dancing with her boys and when Cosette asks if it’s okay both she and Bossuet, even Joly say that they still have time for the babies to be born and she can go on doing normal activities as long as she doesn’t wear herself too much. Everyone seems comforted because when Joly is calm then there is no need to worry and Combeferre is smiling reassuringly and they all discuss labor with composure, and Courfeyrac can’t help feeling proud for Musichetta and her bravery because let him tell you that, if _he_ had to take two babies out of…

It’s alright. He wasn’t planning to sleep tonight anyway. Sleep is for the weak.

They drink and they toast until they’re all shitfaced, so much that Marius is sat in front of the mirror moping pitifully and Joly is trying to operate the turkey. They dance, they do the Macarena and the Time Wrap and they waltz around shamelessly at the festive lights and then they eat as much as they can which makes most of them unbearably heavy and full, and they sink in armchairs and sofas –occasionally on the floor as well-, groaning serenely. Then it’s time to open the presents they’ve all gotten to each other and they end up tearing packets furiously and excitedly like children, sitting on the floor and swimming in a sea of wrapping paper and ribbons. They all end up immensely happy and there are the highlights of the night that everyone receives. Joly’s new sphygmomanometer, the most adorable baby stuff for the two new members on the way, books and books for Combeferre, the most rad pair of leggings for Jehan who has knitted everyone the ugliest sweaters in the world and everyone _adores_ them because they’re personalized and fit each person’s character. Bahorel gets boxing tape and Feuilly new drawing equipment, and gives everyone personalized fans while Bossuet buys his friends banana guards. Marius gets a gorgeous anachronistic top hat –it’s not hard to guess from whom-, Jehan dark poetry and erotic poetry and a raven plushie –the others don’t know about _The_ Lingerie _-_ and Éponine a new pair of army boots which make her scream in excitement until her voice is lost again and Combeferre has to shut her mouth with his palm –only to later replace it with his mouth.

And then there is the snowflake necklace that Combeferre has bought to Éponine and her voice comes out choked after that –which has nothing to do with the flu from which she’s recovered- and the collector’s vintage version of _The Christmas Carol_ from her which almost reduces Combeferre into tears and Courfeyrac’s hand knitted jumper from Jehan, in all the colors of the rainbow horrible and bright and _amazing_ and the Alice in Wonderland carved bronze pocket watch Courfeyrac has bought him and rendered him speechless for a while.

Only Enjolras and Grantaire’s presents are waiting alone under the tree and Jehan’s glance darkens at their sight. “It’s past midnight. We should call to wish them Merry Christmas!” They all agree and mobile phones come out of pockets, texting and calling and videocalling, but apparently neither replies. “I don’t even want to know what he’s up to,” murmurs Combeferre, feeling sad and guilty for his friend who has to spend his night at his family home. “He needs some time with himself,” croaks Éponine, failing to hide her growing disappointment.

But just then hell breaks loose, and it’s Joly who lets a scream when she sees the dampness between Musichetta’s thighs because she can’t speak, she’s frozen, her mouth hanging mutely in an expression of panic and everyone goes silent for a terrifying second until they all start shouting and bringing her stuff she doesn’t need and acting all useless in general apart from Combeferre who bursts outside to bring the car and Feuilly who flees to fetch Musichetta’s emergency suitcase and it’s only when Bossuet starts shouting “Can’t you make it stop? I’m not ready?” that Joly lets out a high pitched scream.

“Our water broke!”

*

Her lips are bright pink and her skin is really smooth and her body defined and curvy beneath his awkward hands and he knows that Bahorel would appreciate her looks, she has that beautiful blond wavy hair and she feels soft in his arms as they sway around in the room, he wants to dislike her but it isn’t that easy because her Dior gown may cost more than all of a hospital’s supplies but other than that she’s nice and kind and apparently has a sense of humor.

_Relax, imagine I’m a cute rich blond chick your mother wants to set you up with. I know this will be painfully hard but you need to try._

He’s holding that rich blond chick in his arms right now and he can’t stop thinking of how it felt to be in _his_ arms, strong and firm and leading him on the carpeted floor of Courfeyrac’s, not in squeaky shining dancefloors, his steps firm and his face dimly lit by the fire, not illuminated by bright chandeliers. He remembers him smirking mischievously, taking his hand in his own cold one, his breath brushing warmly against his skin, smelling of chestnuts and whiskey and cigarettes.

Suddenly it all seems wrong, ridiculously wrong. Nothing makes sense and at the same time everything does. Why is he here? What the fuck is he supposed to be doing? He played his part. He introduced himself to several _important men,_ he allowed his father to show him around like a battle trophy, he avoided getting into any kind of political conversations with tycoons. The girl is nice and funny –and he guiltily notes that he doesn’t remember her name- but suddenly everything makes sense. He knows what he must do.

“Hey,” she hisses in a grimace of pain, “it’s the fourth time you step on my feet. Don’t get me wrong, I really don’t fancy being here but you are so _not here_ that it hurts!”

_It’s the fourth time you step on my feet…_

_You really are a terrible dancer._

That brings him back to reality and he realizes that the plans he’s been making in his head while dancing have made his breathing frantic. “You… you don’t fancy being here?”

“Of course not,” she snorts, “not when my _Jewish_ girlfriend was kind enough to promise me we’d celebrate _Christmas Eve_ just for my sake and I had to cancel our plans because your lovely parents decided to show off their house.” She blushes faintly. “I mean… no offense.”

Enjolras’ head is spinning with excitement, as if a heavy weight has been lifted off his chest. “None taken. You have a girlfriend?”

She nods with a dreamy smile that makes her look even more beautiful.

“And are you going to see her tonight?” he asks breathlessly, as if his own happiness depends completely on that girl and her girlfriend’s.

She nods. “I’ll find an excuse for my parents later. They really like Irma anyway so I don’t think there will be a problem. We’ll spend the night watching festival movies under a blanket, and then maybe I’ll get to paint her.” She looks excited in a rather reserved manner.

_Then maybe I’ll get to paint her._

_Will you let me paint you like one of my French girls?_

He stops in the middle of the dancing couples and she stares at him, startled. “The song is not over.”

_Follow my steps and then we’ll switch._

 “Listen,” he breathes quickly, “you need to help me, alright?”

“Sure,” she smiles mischievously, not looking surprised at all, as if she was expecting that before he even thought of it. “Should I call you a taxi?”

“Um, yeah?” he says baffled. “Yes please call me a taxi. I need to tell my mother I love her even if I think I don’t most of the time. Not my father though. I’ll pretend to be dying from stomach ache. Just… call me a taxi, okay? I can say you’ll have to escort me,” he sounds as if he’s reciting the plan more to himself than to her, “then you can get to your girlfriend.”

“Done,” she says, with an amused expression on her face. “Just give your mamma a kiss and grab your coat, nameless gay friend.”

He stops midway with a million thoughts swirling in his head, wondering how the hell she knows he’s in love with a man and out of nowhere, he turns around and says “Demisexual,” not really knowing himself how that occurred, how it started and where it came from.

She shrugs her shoulders apologetically. He’s ready to rush away again, but stops and turns around one more time. “Hey, what’s your name?”

She smiles enigmatically. “Call me Floréal.”

*

The graveyard is silent but not entirely empty at this time of the year. When Grantaire decided to reconcile with his mother and forgive her for what she did to their family and to himself by leaving them so suddenly, and started visiting her every 24th of December, he realized that many other people had the same idea, not necessarily because a loved one had died on that specific day, but just because they want to spend Christmas Eve together again. They don’t speak, or at least very few do. They sit there and smile distantly, communicating with their minds in ways that only they can. Their loved ones can hear them, Grantaire knows that even though he tends to forget at times when everything seems dark and unpromising.

“Hey,” he mutters quietly, his eyes fixed on the grey tombstone, the only light being the moon as the other visitors begin to walk away one after another. “How are you doing?” he clears his throat. Everything feels so close again after a year of shutting everything out. The safety of her otherwise unsteady arms, the muffled sounds coming from her bedroom, his father’s yelling, the constant slamming of the doors after every time she dyed her hair and her almost maniac laughter as she suffocated him in his arms. _It’s a new beginning, mon petit ‘Aire! Daddy’s old and boring sometimes but we keep on changing. It’s a new life, for the both of us, I’m new!_ New drugs didn’t work, and things in the family started falling apart. Neither did new lives, so she decided to stop trying. “How have you been?” he continues. “We’ve been fine, I mean I don’t know about dad, we haven’t talked since he started finding amusement in addressing me as a fag but I did talk to Audrey and she has an audition in January. In fact I’m going to meet her tomorrow night. We’re having dinner because I couldn’t really invite her at our apartment, Éponine’s and mine. It’s a real mess.” He chuckles softly. “No, we’re not together, Éponine and I. I mean, sex is good but not exactly relevant to my interests. I know you wouldn’t have minded me being gay,” he continues hoarsely. “I was just about to come out when, you know…” he exhales a cloud of frost and throws his eyes in the moonlit sky, curling and uncurling his fingers because his fingerless gloves hardly protect him from the cold. “It’s alright, don’t feel guilty. You didn’t leave me alone, you know. I found friends. They’re amazing. They… they accept me as I am, even when I’m a complete ass.” He can only be thankful that he has his beanie, and his parka, and they may say it’s going to snow but fuck them because he knows it isn’t. Enjolras with his environmental shit is right. “Enjolras,” he hears himself saying. “You’d find him smoking hot, I know you would. Viciously attractive. You know, it’s not only that. You know nothing until you hear him talk, until you hear him talk to you about _yourself,_ things you don’t yet know and no matter how terrible they might be, they sound so beautiful in that passionate voice. He can convince you to do things, to _believe_ in things.” He pauses for a while. “I think he could have convinced you. I think he could have convinced me, in another life.” He takes a deep breath which comes out a little shaky. “I’m fine, you know,” he cracks a smile. “I paint sometimes. I drink, you know I do but I also paint. I just need some time with myself now, is all. You used to say that, didn’t you?” He stops speaking for a minute or maybe a century, and looks away from the stone, in the dark horizon that dissolves into misty fog. “You have always been wonderful,” he croaks. “Don’t listen to what they say, isn’t that what you always told me, yet you never followed your own advice. Don’t listen to what _he_ said. I love you, always have. Audrey did too, she just… you know. Audrey didn’t know how to show it.” He pauses. “We weren’t ready to be left alone.” He laughs bitterly, in a way slightly manic, that under different circumstances it would remind him of her. “I wish I had a bloody something to drink.”

He stays there. Minutes pass. He’s ready to leave. He bows his head, his voice is tender. Children are singing carols.

_Sleep in heavenly peace._

The bell of the church tolls midnight.

“Merry Christmas.”

And then, out of the silence of the night, a voice. "Merry Christmas." 

He turns around to identify the source of the voice and almost jumps up, startled. Hearing voices in a graveyard is not the best sign of sanity but Bahorel brought all this mulled wine earlier so what can you do?

He’s here. He’s here and he’s not a fuckin’ ghost because he smells of an expensive perfume and of wine he detests but underneath all that it’s _him,_ more human and real than ever in the past. He can smell the coffee and the anxiety and the ink and the hours planning and working in the shelter. He’s stunning, in a black suit like that day on the wedding, beneath a perfect pea coat and Grantaire would roll his eyes if he wasn’t so shocked because _he’s such a fuckin’ rebel,_ a red woolen beanie together with the suit, and red Converse? Seriously?

Enjolras looks all flushed and tousle-haired, like he’s been running. He’s breathing quickly, more and more frosted smoke coming out of parted lips. He comes to stand next to him. Grantaire is gawping.

“How did you know you’d find me here?”

“I didn’t.”

They stay silent for a while. Enjolras stands in front of the tombstone, not awkward or creeped out, like Grantaire would be, but respectful and up straight, his posture noble as always. “She must have been great,” he mutters, and it’s not something he says just to please Grantaire and make up for the words they exchanged.

Grantaire nods, still baffled. “She was. She was good. Shouldn’t you be at Courf’s?”

“I had a mother to visit too,” Enjolras scrunches up his nose but it’s softened by a smile. “Then I realized something.”

“Did you,” breathes Grantaire.

Enjolras nods, turning to face him. His nose is red. “I did. A girl named Floréal helped.”

Grantaire frowns. “There is a Floréal in my art class. We used to hang out.”

Enjolras shrugs his shoulders. “Does it matter?” 

Grantaire clears his throat. “No. No, it doesn’t. Um, so? Wanna get going?”

Enjolras looks around the graveyard and shudders a bit. Maybe he isn’t a _total_ freak just yet. Grantaire’s breath hitches on his throat when he feels a gloved hand wrapping around his own. “Yeah, let’s go.”

They end up sitting on a bench somewhere in the 12th arrondissement. Grantaire still doesn’t know how but they both end up acting like nothing has happened and surprisingly enough it isn’t awkward, it’s awkward and natural and easy as breathing, like it should be, as if they’ve been friends since childhood when he most clearly has never been a friend of Enjolras’, plus he can’t manage to imagine him as a child. Enjolras is sitting properly on the bench, knees aligned as if he’s still sitting on his parents’ posh dinner table and not freezing to the bone outside in some godforsaken neighborhood, empty of people as everyone’s inside with families and friends right now.  

“Here,” he says casually, producing a bottle of ridiculously expensive champagne from underneath his coat, as if he’s fuckin’ Mary Poppins or something. “I figured you’d need some and I guess that it wouldn’t matter, just for the day. I mean, I’m going to have some, if that says something…” Enjolras is rambling, oh God Enjolras is _rambling._

“You’re going to have _champagne_?” Grantaire asks incredulously. “ _You_?”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Um, yeah? Why? Is it too out of character?”

Grantaire is rendered silent while Enjolras pops the champagne open and is fast enough to drink the foam straight from the bottle _who the fuck even does that_? Licking his lips in a way that should be illegal, and wiping some foam from his unthinkably expensive coat _on his fuckin’ suit pants_ he hands the bottle to Grantaire. “Cheers,” he says, and Grantaire takes a sip and then another because let him tell you, he’s way too sober for that.

“I’m sorry I don’t have your gift with me. I wasn’t really planning to, you know...”

“Wait a minute, are we exchanging gifts?” asks Grantaire, alarmed.

“Of course you don’t have to get me anything, it was nothing I did, really…” rushes Enjolras.

“No,” Grantaire says absently. “Actually I’ve already gotten you something, only I hadn’t decided on whether I’d give it to you. I have it at home.”

“I have it at home too. We can give them to each other tomorrow.”

“Will I see you tomorrow?” Grantaire blurts out, realizing too late that he’s probably sounded desperate.

“Obviously… I mean, if you want to.”

“Of course,” whispers Grantaire, stunned. “Of course I want to.”

Carols and songs are coming muffled from the houses all around and they stay silent for a while, staring at the colorful light decorations. “If I have to say that I love one thing about Christmas, then that will probably have to be _So this is Xmas,_ ” Enjolras mutters eventually, shuddering slightly from the cold but not seeming to mind.

“Lennon’s?” asks Grantaire, half amused as he starts to relax. “Of course you will. It’s one of my favorites too,” _though for completely different reasons. It’s the pessimism that gets to him, the bitterness of the despair gone by, when for Enjolras it has to be the fraternity and the faith in the future and humanity_. “Alongside with _Blue Christmas.”_

“Yes,” nods Enjolras, “I can tell.” He shudders again.

“You’re freezing,” notices Grantaire. Enjolras simply shrugs. “I still owe you a hug, you know.”

“Give it to me then,” breathes Enjolras, and Grantaire stops for a second before he almost desperately wraps his arms around him, sharing the warmth of their bodies. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “thank you,” murmurs Grantaire at the same time, and then their lips are brushing softly together, swallowing the warmth off of each other’s breath and Grantaire is pretty much aware of the fact that his heart is about to burst out of his chest because he feels something melting on his nose yet he keeps kissing Enjolras breathless, holding each other tightly but more things melt on his eyelashes and scruff and they break the kiss, gasping for breath, just to realize that it has started to snow, tiny, white flakes swirling around in the sky above them. They don’t speak, they don’t need to, only they hold each other’s hands as _So this is Xmas_ but the Celine Dion version starts playing from a nearby house.

“Merry Christmas,” murmurs Enjolras, his breath brushing against Grantaire’s cheek as their foreheads come to rest together, serene smiles forming on their lips.

“Merry Christmas,” Grantaire breathes back and he thinks that this is so ridiculously romantic and so dreamily magical that he will melt in Enjolras’ arms like a fuckin’ snowflake but his thought is violently ended there, because he feels his phone buzzing in the pocket of his jacket.

“Um, maybe you should get this?” suggests Enjolras, a little flustered.

“Fuck it,” says Grantaire hoarsely.

“Maybe it’s serious?”

Grantaire chuckles disbelievingly. “Yeah, sure,” he takes his phone out of his pocket and looks at the screen. “See? It’s Courfeyrac, I told you. Nothing serious.” Nevertheless he picks up and Enjolras can hear Courfeyrac’s voice too because he’s practically screaming.

“Hey Courf yeah, Merry Christmas to you too,” Grantaire rolls his eyes, “but I can’t hear a thing if you scream like that.”

“LOOK, WE’VE BEEN CALLING YOU TWO FUCKERS ALL NIGHT AND I’M REALLY GLAD IF YOU FINALLY PUT YOUR SHIT TOGETHER AND FUCKED BUT-”

“Courfeyrac, this really isn’t the time…”

“MUSICHETTA IS HAVING THE BABIES!”

*

Enjolras has always hated hospitals. It’s not that he rarely falls ill, in fact much more often than he’d like to admit but it has only been once, a couple of years ago that pneumonia sent him in the hospital. Still, without having many traumatic memories, hospitals remain one of his biggest, most inexplicable fears.

Now however everything’s different. The hospital might still smell of iodine like a few days ago when they came here to volunteer, but now it is decorated with lights and ribbons and garlands, not that they notice anything because they’re running like crazy in white, crowded corridors and everything’s a haze until they find the others who are screaming and in a waiting room, the cult group of twenty-somethings in hot excellent suits and festive gowns who have scared away most of the nurses and patients. Cosette and Jehan are reservedly trying to maintain their excitement, Combeferre and Feuilly are trying to calm the others down and bring them coffees, Marius, Bahorel and Éponine are impossibly awkward before such situations they can’t really deal with and Courfeyrac bursts into the corridor covered in blue garlands, cradling two huge fluffy plushes, magazines, candy and balloons. It turns out that both Joly and Bossuet are in the labor room –Combeferre and Joly literally had to struggle for two dads to be accepted inside- and everyone dissolves into frantic cheering when they see Grantaire and Enjolras, panting and completely out of their depths to be arriving together. Jaws dropping, people patting them on the back, Courfeyrac dropping all of the newly bought stuff to suffocate them both in a bone-breaking hug, as if they’ve announced a recent pregnancy themselves instead of sharing a chaste kiss in some bench in the middle of God knows where. It hadn’t even occurred to Enjolras that any of their friends would notice that something has changed between him and Grantaire while one of their best friends is giving birth to _twins,_ for fuck’s sake, but apparently a betting pool has been set on for a while and everyone’s taking ten, twenty, even _a hundred_ euro notes out of their pockets, applauding or scoffing. Enjolras doesn’t know whether he should feel amused, disturbed or offended but Musichetta’s family bursts into the corridor just on the right moment and Courfeyrac rushes to shake the hands of a bewildered mom and take a ridiculous bow before a puzzled dad and introduce all of them while Bahorel almost drags Feuilly by the collar to introduce themselves to a bunch of exotic curvy sisters and cousins.

Screams and swears can be heard from the room in which Musichetta’s mother bursts, freezing the blood in Enjolras’ veins. The revolutionary is willing to fight bravely and even sacrifice his life for liberty and freedom, but apparently childbirth is not something he’ll be able to deal with without having nightmares for a long time, as such a mystery hardly makes sense to him from a scientific –and of any other, really- point of view.

Just then the door opens and an almost hyperventilating Joly with a trembling Bossuet appear, both in surgical uniforms, flushed and covered in sweat. Everyone jumps up from their seats and start shouting and congratulating but Joly holds up a hand. “Nothing happened. Just… Boss almost fainted in there and I had to get him out!”

Combeferre and Bahorel rush to help a hysterically laughing Bossuet to a chair while Joly softly slaps his cheeks and blows comforting kisses to his face. They learn lately that, apparently Joly went into full doctor mode and was a monster of composure the whole time which found him by Musichetta’s side. “Listen, I’m going back there to the woman of my life,” Joly hisses menacingly to his boyfriend while at the same time he pets him adoringly. “If you’ll be the reason to lose the birth of my children then baby no leather panties for you for a month!”

Everyone is positively sure that they could go on living _without_ that piece of information that was revealed on the heat of the moment, but the door opens with any of them expecting and a doctor appears, asking “Who is the father?”

“Me!” both Joly and Bossuet throw themselves up and shout at the same time and they end up getting pillows and plushies thrown on the back of their heads. They start elbowing each other because normally they want more than anything in the world to equally father their newborns and raise them together, but right now each one of them is struggling to be the first to see the babies even for a second’s difference. “I’m a doctor!” cries Joly hopelessly as a seemingly recovered Bossuet is trying to tackle him down, “…in practicing, Madame! I demand to see my children!”

Apparently both of them are immediately allowed to see the children and everyone else simply waits outside, bouncing with excitement, cheering and hugging and kissing, Courfeyrac making daddy jokes which, under different circumstances would make everyone uncomfortable, some of them wiping away happy tears, including Cosette, Jehan and, apparently Bahorel and Marius as well –though the last one’s may be tears of frustration and psychological scars enough to last for a lifetime.

Combeferre, the voice of reason, informs them that now that they know everything is alright they should probably come again tomorrow to see the babies as it is already the middle of the night and Musichetta definitely is exhausted, not to mention Joly and Bossuet and the three of them need some time alone with their new family. Most of them protest, especially Courfeyrac, Jehan and Bahorel, but eventually they all agree to sleep for a few hours because the following day is going to be proven quite hard for them all.

People may be pessimistic, hatred may be found everywhere and every day, yet now all that Enjolras can see in that hospital waiting room is people who’re kissing, hugging and smiling, is _love_ and as Grantaire squeezes his hand on, he knows that the beloved man on his side can see it as well.


	8. And may all your Christmases be white

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “M’Chrismas,” mumbles Enjolras hoarsely, shifting on his side. “C’mere,” he tightens his grip around Grantaire, pulling him closer. “tis cold.”
> 
> “Yeah, sorry,” mutters Grantaire apologetically, “broken heater, you see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God I'm so groggy and sleepy, I shouldn't have had that much chocolate. I love you all, I love the people. Merry Christmas encore une fois (I'm sure I got this wrong but what can you do, one should never stop studying their favorite language in high school...)

Paris wakes up on Christmas morning covered in a white layer of snow, thin enough for circulation to not stop and people to not stay stuck inside, no matter how much Grantaire would appreciate being stuck inside today, that is.

He can feel the warmth of the body pressed against his own long before he opens his eyes, and he lingers in the precious feeling for as long as he can, afraid he’ll wake up from a blissful dream. An arm is wrapped almost possessively around his waist, preventing him from making any movement and their limbs are tangled together beneath the sheets. It’s only when he shudders in the cold of his room that he realizes he’s slept in nothing but his boxers, and it takes a while for the events of the previous night to return to his head and properly settle in.

Number one: it’s Christmas morning and he wakes up _without_ a hangover headache. Number two: Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta have had a baby –no, wait, _two_ babies. Number three-

Number three. Enjolras.

Grantaire cannot bring himself to believe in everything that has happened the night that passed. He never believed in miracles anyway, and this can only be a miracle if it isn’t a vivid trip of some stuff he doesn’t remember smoking, even though he’s pinched himself several times to see if it’s all real and it _hurt._

But still, it’s impossible for him to realize that everything that happened the previous night was real, the passionate moments they shared after they returned from the hospital, the kisses and touches, the way they got to know and explore each other as if they didn’t have forever to do so. Grantaire had been stunned with everything that happened between them, with the outburst of feelings that overwhelmed him, with the extraordinary happiness of sharing everything with the man he had loved for so long, with the way the usually stern, serious Enjolras held him and whispered incoherent nothings in his ear, with the synchronization of their breathing and the unison of their erratic heartbeats while they made love slowly and attentively, easily as if they’d been meant to do this all along, as if their bodies were made for each other, their foreheads to rest together, their lips to leave sighs of need and utter delight. He can’t believe that he, their mighty leader, always so distant and talented happened to care for him so deeply, after all the epic fights they’d shared and the looks that seemed to be of disappointment and disgust. No, Enjolras held him tightly even in his sleep as if he was afraid of losing him, sleeping peacefully, looking like a true angel descended from heaven with his tousled mop of golden hair, porcelain skin that shone at the faint white light of the snowy day and half parted red lips that breathed warmly against the nape of his neck. It’s too beautiful to be true yet Grantaire can feel it all, beneath his fingertips, against his back, around his legs. Enjolras is there, he is his, and it is Christmas.

He tries to roll around on the bed, which is proven to be particularly hard considering that Enjolras’ arms are wrapped around him like tentacles. Finally, he manages to rest his elbow on the pillow to support his chin, and allows himself to take in the features of the sleeping man.

It’s impossible for him to hold back a smile at the sight of Enjolras as he begins to stir, making small sounds of protest while stretching like a cat against the mattress, eventually settling into a fetal position and pulling all the blankets around him, causing Grantaire to hiss at the cold air which raises the hair on his skin.

“Hey,” he mutters in his morning voice, gently nudging Enjolras’ shoulder and earning nothing but a sleep groan. “I’ll turn into an ice-cube out here.”

Enjolras replies with something quite incoherent, flapping his hand over the mattress.

“Uh, Enjolras?” he pokes his shoulder. “Apollo? Wake up, we have things to do, people to see.” _And I desperately want to kiss you._

“ _Leavemealone.”_

It is particularly frustrating for him to be the one to actually _care_ for the things they have to do and the people they have to see, while their leader is aggressively sleeping and cradling on the stolen covers like an octopus. Eventually Enjolras opens his eyes and Grantaire smiles affectionately. “Good morning,” he says, “Merry Christmas.”

“M’Chrismas,” mumbles Enjolras hoarsely, shifting on his side. “C’mere,” he tightens his grip around Grantaire, pulling him closer. “tis cold.”

“Yeah, sorry,” mutters Grantaire apologetically, “broken heater, you see.”

They wrap themselves around each other and Grantaire leans in to kiss him. “Brush your teeth first, you filthy creature!” is the first proper sentence that Enjolras manages to form, but Grantaire is already pressing his lips on his own, hands cupping his cheeks that Enjolras can only let a small groan before eagerly responding to the kiss, sliding his tongue deeper in Grantaire’s mouth and rolling atop of him. “You’re so beautiful,” moans Enjolras against his lips as his cold hands wander all over his body, on his hips and waist and chest, places that have made him feel self-conscious in the past and he would cackle, interpreting Enjolras’ words as mockery but he doesn’t because he’s too breathless to do so and Enjolras feels so real and his words feel real as well, his breath only catches on his throat and his heart races madly as they roll over the sheets. It’s wonderful and sweet and intimate and Grantaire is smiling foolishly against Enjolras’ mouth, in complete bliss, until Enjolras throws himself up in horror, all flushed and disheveled from their kissing. “Shit,” he hisses. “It’s _Christmas,_ isn’t it? We’re late!” He looks positively freaked out as he jumps out of bed, sleep still numbing his reflexes a bit and tries to shove himself into the pair of pants that he fishes from the floor, quite clumsily, truth be told, and rather adorably. Grantaire remembers. The Christmas day volunteering. “I can’t possibly show up in _these,_ ” he holds the suit pants and the wrinkled white shirt with disgust. “Could you please lend me something more…”

Grantaire chuckles softly, opening the wardrobe and handing him a hoodie and a pair of jeans which are going to be huge on Enjolras. “You’re not going anywhere without having a proper breakfast first,” he says, ignoring Enjolras’ thanks and getting up and dressed much less reluctantly than he has in every Christmas morning before. “Allow me at least to show my gratitude with pancakes.”

Enjolras stops, mid-buttoning the jeans and _Oh God he’s in Grantaire’s clothes, this can’t possibly be happening, what has this world come to?_ “Your gratitude?” he raises an eyebrow. “What for?”

Grantaire’s heart starts racing again. It isn’t possible that Enjolras can’t see, that Enjolras doesn’t _know_ what he’s talking about. “For… for returning. For forgiving me. For accepting me with all my fucked up ways. For the hope that I have that you’ll forgive me today and let me stand with you.”

Enjolras looks completely baffled. He shakes his blond head in bewilderment. “ _Forgiving you?_ Forgiving you for being a massive _prick_ myself? Accepting you? I have always accepted you, Grantaire _hell_ I’ve admiredyou, I’ve respected you! I’ve loved you for so long without even knowing myself what was that I was feeling…”

The time on the clock seems to have stopped for Grantaire, the world is staying still because he can’t be sane, he can’t be sober, he can’t be _awake._ It’s impossible yet he’s heard it, he’s seen those beloved lips moving, he’s seen the frown and the sincerity on Enjolras’ face. “Excuse me, you’ve _what_?”

“I’ve loved you, Grantaire,” Enjolras says as if he’s stating the obvious, moving closer in Grantaire’s huge maroon hoodie and grasping his arms strongly. “Do you think I’d be there if I didn’t, do you think I’d let you do… everything you’ve done if I wasn’t aching for you like I did?” he groans softly. “Maybe I haven’t done my best with showing it.”

Grantaire stands there, completely still and speechless. “No,” he mutters eventually, “no, you haven’t.”

Enjolras pulls him to a soft, chaste kiss, as if he’s forgotten their cause though Grantaire knows that can’t be happening. His lips are gentle and warm and they taste of morning and somehow… no, it isn’t chestnuts or peppermint or cinnamon but they _do_ taste like Christmas, or Christmas should taste like Enjolras’ lips.  “I’m sorry,” Enjolras whispers against him, making everything seem even more surreal. “I’ve been such a classic fool.”

“Don’t talk like that,” breathes Grantaire almost chokedly, stroking Enjolras’ smooth cheek with his hand. “Just… just let me make those fuckin’ pancakes, okay?”

Enjolras chuckles softly, it’s so pretty a sound, so clear and assuring. He looks adorable as he cleans his teeth with toothpaste on his fingertips and Grantaire can’t afford thinking about two toothbrushes potentially standing together in the same cup in the future, all youthful and innocent, the seemingly marble statue with so much love to give. Grantaire thinks he’ll explode every minute, while he puts oil in the frying pan and makes coffee for the two of them, trying desperately at the same time to tidy up the abominable mess in the kitchen, to make it all a bit more Christmassy by shuffling cream to put atop of the coffee and subconsciously humming the same seasonal tunes he’s despised all along. Enjolras arrives behind him to throw his arms around his waist and bury his face in the crook of his neck and Grantaire thinks he’ll burst with excitement. They’ve contacted Feuilly and Cosette and learnt that they have everything under control and the work is going brilliantly, so Enjolras breathes with relief, trusting Feuilly completely and sits down, just for a while. They sip their coffee quickly and he feels a fuzzy, warm weight settling in his chest as he sees Enjolras who probably forgets to eat for ages, ravishing the pancakes and appreciating his talents, talents which Grantaire had always failed to see.

“When you said that you were also thankful for the hope that I’d let you stand with me,” he says at some point, “what did you mean?”

Grantaire feels his cheeks burning with a mixture of shame and anticipation. “You’ve organized all this,” he replies, “I was hoping you’d find a place for me today. Someway I could help.”

Enjolras freezes on his position. “But you… you never showed an interest to sign for any shift.”

“Better later than never, isn’t what they say?” Grantaire shrugs his shoulders with a tiny, apologetic grin.

Enjolras looks incredibly serious. “Let me get this straight,” he says slowly, “you want to come today and help us at our quest?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, “obviously.”

“And… and what about your sister? You were supposed to meet her today, weren’t you?”

“Tonight,” Grantaire corrects him, taking up the courage to suggest what has seemed absolutely absurd to him up to that point. “I would really love it if… you know, if you joined us for dinner. If you wanted, of course.”

Enjolras is already up, shutting him with a fierce kiss on the lips. “Thank you,” he mutters hoarsely, wrapping his arms around him and holding him tight. They don’t need to say anything else.

*

Despite the falling snow, the day is a tremendous success. Enjolras can finally allow himself to feel proud for something they accomplished, for the grateful smiles on the faces of every person they’ve helped today, and he knows he’ll never forget Grantaire’s words again. _The smiles on every individual’s face is something you don’t easily forget._ He’ll always remember every little single thing of this Christmas day. The children who got their vaccines, their lit up faces as they held their new toys, the men and women who got a good day’s meal and new clothes for the winter, the awareness they managed to stir in hundreds of Parisians, and then Jehan and Courfeyrac who visited elder people’s homes and had six different Christmas lunches with them –Courfeyrac ate while Jehan secretly fed the cats whatever wouldn’t harm them- and shared stories from the war, from their lost youth and children that had made their lives away from home. Then it was the money Feuilly earned with his voice, after finishing from the shelter, caroling together with Bahorel and Gavroche, and would be given to the homeless. He would also never forget Monsieur Fauchelevent and his tremendous help, together with Cosette and Marius, towards the bishop of their church who caused all his hostility towards clerics to dissolve. He had convinced Combeferre to leave early as his help had already been massive and they were overnumbered, what with the people’s interest, and he knew how much Combeferre cared for his family and the usual lunch in his childhood home. Enjolras was more than happy when Éponine asked for permission to follow his best friend.

But most of all, he’d remember Grantaire’s dedication, a dream in which he would never had believed if he was told. The way he spoke to the people and gave them courage, the jokes he shared with them, the hard work he did and his _laughter,_ God his laughter, so different from his usual, sarcastic chuckles, so free of any bitterness, so clear and genuine and loving, like the Grantaire he’d always subconsciously dreamt of having in his life.

They leave at night, holding hands, completely exhausted and impossibly contented.

*

She sees him smiling and she can’t help but smile herself even though something is fluttering in the pit of her stomach and she’s nervous as fuck, because never in her life had a boy invited her over to meet his parents on the third date – _if_ making sure she wouldn’t sneeze herself to death a few days ago, and Courfeyrac’s party after Gavroche practically made a sight of them in front of a whole school counted as dates– not that she didn’t enjoy every minute of it.

It’s just that Combeferre doesn’t make it look like a meet-the-parents lunch. That’s exactly why she’s changed her mind, that’s why she _wants_ to be there, only a few hours after they shared their first kiss. This is important for Combeferre. His family is important for him, a family she never dreamed of having. He adores his sisters and he speaks of his parents and grandparents all the time and that intrigues Éponine in a way she never thought it would. She cares to meet them and she understands that he doesn’t want them to accept Éponine, she wants _her_ to love them, because they are an important part of his life.

And Éponine is important too.

Gavroche doesn’t really seem to appreciate the idea in some sweet little house in the province and announces that he’s spending the day _hunting with his boys_ and Éponine really doesn’t want to know what ‘hunting’ means, but when she informs him that there are going to be three girls around his age in that house, Gavroche wears his best cute look and jumps in Combeferre’s car before they’re able to say _marshmallow._

It is a magically beautiful day. It has stopped snowing long ago, making the trip perfectly easy, and the sun is filling the landscape with white light, yet the snow hasn’t melted yet and they can see it covering the green fields. Combeferre, being the perfect big brother that he is, is obviously amazing with Gavroche and the two of them end up singing dirty versions of carols loudly, causing Éponine to endlessly roll her eyes, curled in the front seat of the car. None of them has slept much, what with Musichetta’s new babies which they’ll be seeing tonight when they return and Éponine soon finds herself lulled by the rhythmical sounds of the car and takes a nap, until of course Gavroche roars in her ear, a couple of hours later.

Calais-Nord, an English town for centuries, is a really beautiful place, full with canals, rooftops covered in thin layers of snow, families strolling by the harbors in the light of the noon, wrapped in several layers of clothes, eating in small restaurants and brasseries. Combeferre’s family house is a little out of town, an adorable little place, decorated traditionally with a huge, real tree in the middle of the warm living room –she doesn’t even want to imagine Jehan and Enjolras’ fit at the abuse of the forests, but they would probably both forgive Combeferre’s parents because they are adorable. Both his father and mother welcome her with a hug as if they’ve known her forever, and his grandmother plants kisses on both of her cheeks. She doesn’t have the faintest idea how that can be possible, but they all _smell_ like family, like cooked lunch and fresh bread and dad knits and mum perfumes, so different than her own parents ever smelt, like alcohol and filthy sweat, and they make her feel comfortable at one glance, even though she’s always been hostile and suspicious when it came to people in the past. Her only fear is that they’ll start cooing over Gavroche and pinching his cheeks which will probably result in him pissing in the turkey, but they treat him like a grown man, Combeferre’s dad getting him to see his miniature train collection and his awesome grandfather, to everyone’s horror, muttering shocking jokes to him, sneering through his toothless jaws.

Éponine can see why Combeferre adores his sisters. It’s three complete badasses –or rather two badasses and a tiny demon- in ballet tutus, red cute tartan skirts and patent Mary Jane flats of thirteen, ten and eight accordingly. Josephine is a miniature Combeferre who walks hidden behind a book but she shows Éponine her room and the walls are covered with Doctor Who and Star Wars, not to mention the Rocky Horror Show poster over her bed. Julie is the one in the tutu skirt, all blonde and white and sweet until she starts the pranks behind your back and Manon whom her grandmother calls _mon petit chou_ is the most adorable kid in the world, with rosy cheeks and chocolate curls, bouncing up and down with her thumb in her mouth. Adorable, until she starts biting everybody with sharp teeth.

They climb on Combeferre, screeching and asking for their presents when he enters the house, as if he’s Santa Claus. It causes a pang in Éponine’s chest at the thought of the sister she never got to meet but it quickly dissolves in bittersweet nostalgia.  Julie grabs his glasses to wear them and laugh at him bumping into walls and Éponine realizes that he’s completely blind in the absence of them, as for little Manon, she climbs on his shoulders, tapping his head and shouting “Ahoy!” Josephine saves him a seat on the couch and starts enthusiastically analyzing her new theory about Helena Ravenclaw’s backstory.

The girls and Gavroche immediately hit it off –though Éponine can’t decide who is apparently more his type, Julie or Manon- and rush to Josephine’s room, causing her mother to fear that they’ll soon blow it up –apparently they do hear explosions afterwards, and the children give them puppy eyes and exclaim horribly innocently that they’ve been experimenting on physics (the hell they have).

They have dinner which is delicious and Éponine has to try hard not to make orgasmic sounds while chewing the meat and then the French pudding, everyone seems to be loving her –she doesn’t have the faintest idea _why-_ and they even love her piercing and her _darling Christmassy dress_ which apparently is an oversized grunge red plaid shirt worn over torn leggings but they seem genuine and they don’t even need to make an effort, especially when Combeferre’s mother asks all excitedly if they’re planning to give her grandchildren soon and she and Combeferre choke on their food –even grandma chokes on her food and mutters something about grown up daughters who are accomplished scientists yet still haven’t gotten over the patriarchic norms of society and people did _revolt_ at her time.

Then they sit on the sofas and play games and it’s more hilarious than Éponine has ever assumed a family lunch can be but the best thing is not that Combeferre sits next to her and secretly rubs the back of her hand with his thumb, so softly and warmly, but that Gavroche seems to adore him just as he does Grantaire, Jehan and Feuilly and the two boys end up philosophizing life and food together, lying back on the carpet.

Soon, tired and full, Combeferre’s father and grandmother start snoring on the couch and his grandfather goes to tease his mother with jokes from the war after she dismisses Éponine from the kitchen, exclaiming that she doesn’t need her help and she should go and “watch some movie with my boy!”

It’s when Combeferre sneaks in under the mistletoe, near the window from which they can see the twilight reflecting on the snow, and tries to steal a moment or two, surprising her by wrapping his arms around her, nibbling kisses on her jaw and collarbone, breathing how he wants her against her skin and sending shivers down her spine and sighs from her throat and they hear the two younger girls making sounds of utter disgust, and intellectual Josephine from all people who slaps Gavroche who tries to show her _how people do it properly,_ that Éponine realizes that maybe, just _maybe_ she has found a family.

*

Having dinner with Courfeyrac’s mother is always a challenge, even if your name is Jean Prouvaire, therefore she miraculously happens to adore the shit out of you. After she gets drunk and jokes about Monsieur de Courfeyrac and his _business trips_ , she usually gets up to chit chat with other patrons of the restaurant and exchange numbers and then you know it is perfectly safe to leave. The two of them end up at home after a perfectly exciting visit of Musichetta at the hospital, the overall exhaustion of the day translating to untamable energy. So they christen the places that haven’t yet been christened. The kitchen counter. The closet (Courfeyrac’s idea). The washing machine (definitely Jehan’s idea).

They end up flushed and completely taken apart on the fluffy carpet in front of the fireplace. Their hair is disheveled, Jehan’s completely loose from his braid and they’re breathing heavily, trying to pull themselves together for a while.

“Merry Christmas,” chuckles Jehan, almost hysterically, rolling atop of Courfeyrac to lie his head on his chest.

Courfeyrac ruffles his hair, giggling back. “Merry Christmas!”

“Movie?” asks Jehan breathlessly.

Courfeyrac nods, not getting up from the floor. “Movie.”

And because that’s what every normal person does after wild sex on every possible surface of their new apartment, they curl on the floor, nutella and the remaining wine of the party on their lap, and have a Harry Potter marathon, focused on the first movies which they haven’t watched in ages _._

They both try to maintain themselves, but it’s at the point where Harry hugs Hagrid and that evilly emotional score starts to play that Courfeyrac starts choking in his own tears.

*

Taking into consideration Joly and Bossuet’s skin tones, both on completely opposite ends of the skin tone spectrum, it is rather obvious who technically is the father, something they didn’t really know until now. The thing is that neither wants to see or to think about it. It’s _their_ babies, blessed enough to be equally loved from two fathers and a wonderful mother. None of them is feeling any different, not when they’re so overwhelmed and ecstatic to hold two little bundles in their arms and coo at sleepy, bleary eyes and chubby cheeks, tiny feet and fists that wrap around their knuckles. Musichetta lets another growl at the recurring realization that in her life she will from now on be surrounded by four boys, hard to decide which the babiest one of them all is, yet she can hardly fail to admit how extraordinarily happy that makes her.

The babies might have two fathers, but it will probably take a while for one of them to get to hold them properly, not after Bossuet almost dropped petit Dominique on the bed and Joly almost strangled him, only to be ridden with guilt afterwards and rush to fill his boyfriend’s bald head with kisses.

They watch Musichetta, so beautiful and perfect as she holds a baby to her chest. Joly wraps his arms around her back while Bossuet sneakily gets to hold little Thierry and gently stroke his tiny, soft head, which turned out – _of course-_ to be bald as well.

They stay like that until their friends arrive, babies sleeping in their crib by the bed and the three of them curl up together, smiling serenely.

In the evening, when most of the shifts finish with success, their friends start crowding the room despite the nurses’ protestations. Courfeyrac and Jehan are there, with all the flowers, the teddy bears and the balloons of the world –and Musichetta can really use that chocolate, thank you very much-, Cosette and Bahorel baby-talking to no end, Feuilly and Marius a little more distant and overwhelmed, snapping pictures with Courfeyrac’s camera, and soon Éponine and Combeferre arrive with Gavroche who’s refusing to wait outside, to give a hand with the babies and allow the new parents to rest for a while.

It’s only a little later that Enjolras and Grantaire both arrive, bearing little gifts and proper food because hospital food is in no way acceptable for Christmas. They can’t stop staring at them as they smile faintly and hold hands when they think no eyes –and no Courfeyrac’s camera- are turned upon them.

In the years to follow, people may talk. People may stare. In the years to follow, children may laugh at their children and not accept them that easily. People did not accept _them_ that easily but apparently they found the friends that they needed, the friends that loved and embraced them like they are, and appreciated their every aspect. Things may not always run smooth, but as Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta stare around in the room full of people who care for them more than anything in the world, and love their children as if they’re their own, they know that they have a family.

They’ve always had one.

*

The night has fallen as they walk to Enjolras’ place from the Number One of the most exhausting days of their lives. They make a stop with the metro because Grantaire wants to grab something from his place -apparently something in the shape of a large book and wrapped in newspapers, Enjolras isn’t going to invade in his privacy and ask what it is. Snow has started falling and that’s why they had to leave from dinner with Grantaire’s sister, with a promise to repeat that soon.

Audrey is great, Enjolras decides. A little scary (a lot), that’s for sure, but other than that, amazing. She looks a lot like Grantaire, the same blue eyes and black hair, straight and reaching her shoulders and she shows up in a puffy ‘50s dress, gloves that reach her elbow, a pair of cowboy boots and a leather jacket that would make Bahorel both proud and unbearably jealous. She ruffles Grantaire’s hair and gives Enjolras an onceover, winking to Grantaire and saying “good job!” She casually asks them about their sex life and when she’s going to meet the rest of Grantaire’s friends because she’s _bored and could use some action_. Enjolras clears his throat uncomfortably at that, considering how unfortunate it would be for even more member of their group to start obsessing over sex, but then feels quite hypocritical himself. He learns that she’s an unemployed actress and an extremely interesting person, maybe _way_ too interesting and she apparently has a thing about reciting whole monologues from films and theatre plays at the most random moments, in the most surreal manner. She pats him on the head and sweetly threatens to end him if he makes her little brother’s life hard. Eventually she excuses herself and Grantaire whispers to Enjolras’ ear that she probably has an orgy to attend, causing Enjolras to choke on his mineral water and cough for a good five minutes. She gives him a blank look with those very familiar piercing blue eyes, only they look a little more insane on her, muttering “You’re odd” under her breath and Enjolras makes a mental note not to let Bahorel anywhere near her. She wraps a teal feather boa around her neck and kisses them both on both cheeks, saying she’ll meet them again on New Year’s Eve and on a completely out of character moment, reminds Grantaire to do his laundry regularly.

It’s a meeting Enjolras will most certainly not forget, he thinks as he turns the key on the door of his apartment, taking their shoes off to dry from the snow in the streets. Nor will he forget the ease with which Grantaire took a baby in his arms earlier that day, as if he was born to do that, reminding nothing of his usual darker, even cynical self. It was a peaceful image and Enjolras didn’t know why it overwhelmed him so much. Maybe it was the softness that took over Grantaire’s usually harsh features, the gentleness in the way he carefully rocked the baby and cooed at it while _he_ felt completely out of his depth.

His pulse picks up when he remembers what he’s about to do and he completely freaks out, realizing how late it is to step back, wondering what the fuck he’d been thinking when he did that. He wonders about ripping the envelope to pieces and pretending nothing ever happened, but Grantaire snaps him out of his thoughts. “So,” he hears the man muttering, he voice slightly croaked. “I haven’t given you your present yet.”

Enjolras freezes at his spot. “I told you that you didn’t have to…”

Grantaire shrugs his shoulders, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Look, I’ve already made it and I know I’m going to fuckin’ regret this so much afterwards but I really don’t have anything else to give you and it made sense a few weeks ago but it bloody doesn’t anymore, no sense at all and I wish I could fuckin’ run away but…”

“It’s this package, isn’t it?” Enjolras asks breathlessly, pointing at the wrapped orthogonal thing lying on the coffee table.

Grantaire nods, shutting his eyes tightly in desperation. “Just… leave it, okay? I don’t know what I was thinking…”

Enjolras is already tearing the newspaper wrappers and soon his breath catches on his throat at the realization he’s holding a small canvas. It’s a painting and it’s glorious, created by the most talented of hands, red and black and gold, fire in his looks and ice on his skin, hair made of sun and a red flag wrapped around the glorious hips of the marble statue. It’s like an explosion of light and Enjolras has completely forgotten how to breathe.

It’s him.

“This…” he clears his throat. “God, Grantaire, I don’t know what to say.” He can feel his heart pounding loudly in his head as he watches himself staring back at him from a piece of canvas, realizing that he doesn’t look idolized, or exaggerated, he looks human yet it is beautiful and it’s _him_.

Grantaire keeps his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m such an idiot.”

“What can you be sorry for?” whispers Enjolras after a moment of silence. “This… this is more than extraordinary, this is so beautiful and different from everything you’ve painted in the past…”

Grantaire is gaping, clearly not having received the response he was waiting for, yet something seems to bring him back to reality. “Everything I’ve painted? How would you know? You’ve only seen my sketches for the pamphlets. I mean… Feuilly remembered to give them to you, didn’t he?”

There isn’t time to feel uncomfortable at the mention of the period of not talking to each other and being handed his work by Feuilly, just until yesterday. There is no time because Enjolras knows the time is now and he’s way too overwhelmed with the best Christmas gift he’s ever received to think about _it_ but he can’t back off, not now and he has to say the truth.

“It wasn’t only the sketches that Feuilly gave me,” confesses Enjolras, feeling his cheeks burn.

Grantaire obviously doesn’t understand anything. “What do you mean, Enjolras?”

Enjolras walks to the study rather decided, fishing a red envelope under the piles of notes and hands it to him. “Please, don’t be mad,” he says softly. “Merry Christmas.”

Grantaire doesn’t seem to understand a thing until he opens the envelope and stops frozen at the sight of a bank check. His features tense and his expression harshens, obviously offended at the gesture but then he sees a letter inside the envelope. “You earned it,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire looks completely awestruck as his blue eyes run over the letter. Enjolras has already learnt it by heart and can literally read it in Grantaire’s expression the same time as he does. _Monsieur Grantaire… pleased to inform you that you have won the first prize… Art and Comics competition… Cash prize and an opportunity to work as an illustrator for our magazine for a year…_

“Is this a joke?” Grantaire’s voice comes out hoarse. “Because if this is a joke then know that it isn’t fuckin’ funny.”

“No, Grantaire,” Enjolars says calmly, patiently, already expecting this reaction. “This is not a joke. You won yourself a job.”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Grantaire slowly raises his eyes and Enjolras takes a deep breath.

“No, I’m not kidding you at all. You can either accept it or refuse it, but the cash prize is yours.”

“But… I never… I never _applied_ to that contest!” Enjolras doesn’t reply, a mischievous smile simply appears on his face. “Fuck. _You_ did. You little promiscuous piece of _shit…_ ” Enjolras resists the temptation to laugh because really, if Grantaire’s reaction is going to be so precious then he’ll probably have to surprise him more often. “How? How did you find it? What did you send?”

“An aquarelle illustration,” mutters Enjolras. “I asked Feuilly to give me his favorite and help me fill in the form with your data.”

“So _that’s_ where it went…” mutters Grantaire more to himself than to Enjolras. “And the little prick said he had no idea! This was a crappy piece of work though, now some old committee’s probably laughing their asses off on me…” he’s started to panic but soon he goes to full stunned mode again. “It _won_? How did it win? Did your dad fucking pay them or something?”

“No one paid them, Grantaire,” explains Enjolras slowly. “Your work won because it was unique and amazing, and it got you a job. Simple as that.”

“I’m a damn lucky dude…” Grantaire says in a strangled voice, but Enjolras grabs him by the arms.

“You’re not lucky,” he says, shaking him slightly. “You’re damn _talented,_ alright? It’s high time you realized it.”

Grantaire swallows, his expression completely numb and shocked. “Yeah. Right. Whatever. So, I have a job?”

“Yes,” nods Enjolras. “You have a job. As a guest illustrator. For a year. It’s up to you and your work whether the contract will be renewed after that or what.”

And then Grantaire’s lips are harshly pressed against his own and Enjolras lets a moan as Grantaire throws his fingers through his hair, tattering against the wall and pinning his wrists back, kissing him senselessly. “Thank you,” he breathes against his mouth, “this is the best present anyone has ever got me.”

“You got it yourself,” Enjolras manages to breathe before they start kissing again, forgetting all about being exhausted and torn.

After all, a bubble bath is the best way to relax after a tiring day. And one must not forget that bathing with another person can result to nothing but saving water.


	9. Carol of the bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Really, if there's any point in this chapter it's just that everyone kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. Sorry about this chapter but the story is over I guess, and I may get to write a little something for New Year's Eve and post it tonight. Thank you so much for sticking around and giving me your feedback throughout the whole fic, it really means a lot and all your support meant so much to me! I really hope that beside the cliches, it managed to contribute a bit to the holiday cheer or... whatever. You are amazing! Thank you for everything! (and let me get ready for the next big story that's right you won't get away with it)

New Year’s Eve at Marius and Cosette’s is a quiet affair. Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta who had just left the hospital battled over leaving their newborns in Musichetta’s parents and joining them, or staying at home with them. Needless to say, the second choice prevailed. Their friends did miss them but they all knew they would do the same if it was for such precious, tiny human beings who’d just entered their lives. Cosette’s father is a darling and provides them with drinks and magnificent food he and his daughter have made, and says he’ll stay to kiss Cosette Happy New Year until midnight and then leave _to meet with his scary ass headmaster boyfriend who joined us in Christmas dinner,_ whispers Marius to Bahorel, earning a kick on the shin by his wife which causes him to moan in pain.

They dance, because that’s what they do. It’s Jehan who starts it, tonight in a black, sequined corset and a tulle black skirt extending over his leggings. Courfeyrac grabs him in his arms after doing a particularly sassy number with Gavroche, and they laugh and they swirl and they sway and they laugh, free of everything ugly and everything dark in the world. It’s Éponine who grabs Combeferre’s hand and leads him in the middle of the room, moving their feet with no coherence, as Cosette starts waltzing with Marius. Bahorel is dancing with Audrey, Grantaire’s sister, today dressed like a ‘20s silent film starlet, until she abandons him for Feuilly, causing him to gasp with shock. And finally Grantaire leads Enjolras by the hand and Enjolras shamelessly rests his head on his shoulder as they start to move, shutting their eyes and the rest of the world outside, just for a minute because the world is them and the world can wait for them to lose their selves in each other’s scents and in the rhythm of their feet.

“You are a wonderful dancer,” whispers Grantaire in his ear.

“No, you know I am a terrible dancer.”

“You are wonderful to me.”

They turn on the Skype call with Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta. The three of them are drinking wine on their huge bed, dressed beautifully and whispering quietly as the babies have just gone to sleep. Monsieur Fauchelevent shuts off the lights. They stop and stare at the windows. The city has gone silent, the houses dark. Everybody holds their breaths.

_Ten_

Everything’s dark. People whisper. On the screen of the laptop which serves as the only light in the room, they can see Bossuet’s dark figure falling from bed. Joly’s muffled shrieks make them lose half of the counting.

_Eight_

_Seven_

_Six_

Muffled whispers. A groan. Someone’s stepped on Éponine’s foot.

_Five_

It’s Combeferre. He’s going to pay.

_Four_

Someone’s moving between them. Someone peers in the other room. Probably Marius forgot something.

_Three_

Marius starts jumping around, screeching. They hear Gavroche laughing mischievously. They’ll have to deal with Pontmercy’s lost wallet –and dignity- when the lights are on.

_Two_

Hands clasp.

_One_

Fireworks explode outside the window, illuminating the Parisian sky but no one cares about those because they’re kissing each other and what they say in teenage movies about kisses and fireworks, well it _has_ to be true even when they’re drunk and chuckling and stumbling on each other, even when they’re so different from average couples in movies, mismatching and uncertain, broken and numb at times, passionate and whole at others. Grantaire’s lips are hot against Enjolras, mouth slack and warm and tasting of the freedom a new beginning can bring them.

They realize that Bahorel and Feuilly are missing, but apparently together with _Audrey_ and no one’s going to question that any further, not even her little brother. Joly and Bossuet have left the screen, despite Musichetta’s hisses that they’ll wake the babies but apparently they’ve headed _straight_ to the babies and Musichetta follows them soon after. Monsieur Fauchelevent is holding Cosette tight to his chest, pressing his lips on the top of his head and then, much to Marius’ horror, dragging him too in his huge arms for an affectionate hug. Courfeyrac and Jehan are very close to jumping each other right in front of the fireworks, much to the others’ horror and Éponine is ruffling Gavroche’s hair before turning around to meet Combeferre’s lips, who grabs her by the waist despite her murderous threats and spins her around in the room, causing Gavroche to make sounds of disgust.

Everyone kisses. Courfeyrac kisses Enjolras and Combeferre straight on the mouth, Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta kiss on the camera, Feuilly, Bahorel and Audrey have at least the decency to do whatever the hell they want to do in some other room –though Marius knows their laughter will haunt him forever- Cosette hugs Éponine tightly and soon Jehan joins them, dragging Grantaire with him. Like that they stand, all together like a fist even when some are seemingly away, always united, staring at the fireworks that sign the beginning of a New Year, filling the room with color and light. Behind the other bodies, Grantaire feels Enjolras’ hand reaching for his own. Their eyes meet through the heads of their laughing friends.

Grantaire looks at them, at the people who accepted him and embraced him just for who he was, at the people who will never stop fighting for equality and liberty and _love,_ at the man who took him by the hand and helped him stand upright, the man who changed his life with a single glance. He looks at them and he knows that, despite all their problems, their differences and their nightmares, it’s a New Year. Fireworks are lighting the sky, laughter is filling the room and Love, Actually, is everywhere.


End file.
